Side Story: Daemoras of the Guthnar (Patreon)

Young Daemoras had always liked the view from his elder brother’s room. When they’d been assigning quarters to the Scions, Avaredias had lucked out – his suite was on the top floor of the western wing, with a balcony that overlooked the Edrax Hunting Grounds. The furniture was inlaid with ivory trim, and portraits of former Clanlords stood tastefully beside wallscreens showing the latest Clan updates.

Best of all, his Teacher couldn’t follow him into Avaredias’ apartments.

Currently, Daemoras was hiding out from Teacher Verraquestras for a simple reason – he hadn’t done his homework. Not an insurmountable problem at the best of times, but when you were the youngest son of Clanlord Tarragos of the Guthnar, first among the Raptor Clanlords, there were … certain expectations.

As Verraquestras never failed to remind him.

So, young Daemoras had two choices. Own up to the undone homework, and get yet another lecture on responsibility and the importance of discipline. Or, hide out somewhere until Verraquestras had to leave for the evening, unable to locate his student.

That would delay the lecture to tomorrow, of course. But. Tomorrow was Stealth training with Huntmaster Exaremas. And being able to show that he had successfully evaded a Space-qualified Raptor Guardsman for a day – even one as long retired as Teacher Verraquestras – might amuse Exaremas enough to get him off the hook.

A Raptor could hope.

So, he hid in the closet of his brother’s room. It wasn’t as bad as it sounded – like everything else in his quarters, Avaredias had a supermassive closet. Large enough to walk into, have a nice sit-down dinner with four or five friends, and then walk out of.

Voices from outside alerted him.

“…. and I keep telling you, it’s wasteful. You shouldn’t need this much space.”

“Evgenia, it’s not by choice,” came the amused voice of Avaredias. “The Clan Palace isn’t like a normal home, you know.”

“What with bathrooms the size of apartments.”

“That’s not even the best of it. Have you seen my closet yet?”

“Ava, that had better not be a lame attempt to get me out of my jewelry.”

“I would never do something so unchivalrous. Especially since I’m fairly sure Daemoras is currently hiding in there.”

Daemoras jumped. How did his brother know?

Before he could react, the doors to the closet had slid open and he found himself staring into two pairs of Raptor eyes. One set female, sympathetic, and very kind. And one set twinkling with mischief and the promise of fun – an older mirror to his own.

Daemoras stuttered. “I was just, um….”

“Hiding out from your Teacher?” grinned Avaredias.

“Ava, leave the poor boy alone,” chided Evgenia. “It’s bad enough that we’re disturbing him.”

“He’s in my closet, Evgenia.”

“And every kid deserves a break from having to be a Guthnar Scion all the time.”

“Technically he won’t be a Scion till his Raising Ceremony.”

“That doesn’t lessen the pressure, does it?”

Avaredias nodded in acknowledgement. “That’s a fair point. It’s not as if all of us aren’t slightly messed up…”

Daemoras watched meekly as Evgenia continued to harangue his brother.

He liked Evgenia. Unlike the other young ladies who would come around sometimes – usually escorted by his mother, and theirs – Evgenia didn’t put on any airs. She also didn’t hesitate to call Avaredias out when he did something silly.

Avaredias was asking him a question. “… so your plan was to hide in my closet until Verraquestras gets bored and goes home?”

“Um, yes,” Daemoras stammered.

His brother shook his head. “Won’t work. Verraquestras was a Space-qualified Scout Sniper. He has the patience of a kolvenwolf on a month-long hunt. And he knows there are only so many places in the Palace where the staff won’t point you out.”

“He’s not allowed in your chambers,” blurted Daemoras.

“But my security detail is. And they listen to Verraquestras on account of his being a veteran. How long do you think before he persuades them to try?”

Daemoras felt his fleeting hopes vanish. The lecture loomed ever closer, an inevitability further worsened by the fact that he’d have to sit for lessons anyway.

“However, there is one activity they won’t interrupt.” There it was – the twinkle in his brother’s eye that presaged all sorts of mischief.

Daemoras got it, too. “Oh. Yes, we could do that.”

“Got what?” Evgenia sounded puzzled.

Avaredias bared his teeth. “Have I ever mentioned to you that somewhere in this overindulgent waste of space, I have a full-sized training ring?”

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Daemoras had been in training bouts many times before. Like many other things, it was expected of a Guthnar scion-to-be.

This was the first time he would be training against his brother, though. His older, stronger, brother. Who was currently helping him with safety gear while dealing with an increasingly irate Evgenia.

“You’re a Space-qualified Edgelord, Ava! And he’s just a kid!”

“He’s been in bouts before,” Avaredias commented while lacing up Daemoras’ chest protection. “And I know how to pull my punches, Evgenia. I’m not going to hurt him.”

“Accidents can happen to anyone, Ava!”

“Daemoras. Do you trust me?” Avaredias’ eyes bore into his.

Daemoras nodded. His brother wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

“Good. Now listen – I’m going to be using a variant of the Velaxa seventh fighting form interspersed with our Guthnar third form. Have you studied the different forms?”

“Uh, Huntmaster only taught me the first Guthnar form so far – second’s in a few months.”

“That’s rather slow for Exaremas… never mind. What you need to understand is, our third form focuses on heavy defense, while the Velaxa seventh form is designed for light, probing attacks. They’re fast but only some of them are actually intended to hurt. You have to figure out which attacks to dodge and which to take.”

“How?”

“Watch the ebb and flow of movements. And don’t worry – with all that protective padding, even if I land a hit, it’ll be no worse than bumping your shin. Use the standard first form techniques. Correctly executed, they’ll stop any Velaxa seventh-form moves cold.”

“… what if I get one wrong?”

“Then you’ll learn what to correct. Best of all, Verraquestras can’t argue if I tell him I called you in for a personal training session with my little brother.” Avaredias grinned.

When put that way, the idea seemed to make a lot of sense. “Let’s fight!”

“The term is ‘Let’s spar’,” Avaredias said indulgently, “but it’s good you’re getting into the spirit of the thing. Evgenia, would you be a dear and mind the medical supplies? In case either of us gets hurt, you’re going to have to give first aid.”

“You’d better not hurt him.” Evgenia was fuming.

“I’ll do my best, and so will he. Ready, Daemoras?”

Daemoras nodded. He wouldn’t let down his brother!

As the two Raptors – one tall and muscled, the other short and lean – climbed into the ring, they took up fighting stances. “Ready?” called Avaredias.

Daemoras nodded.

“You have to say it. That’s what we need to activate the auto-timer.”

“Sorry, I forgot. Daemoras of the Guthnar – ready to spar.”

“Avaredias, Edgelord of the Guthnar – ready to spar.”

With that, a bright beam of red light washed over them for a fraction of a second. A heavily Velaxa-accented voice announced: “Training Spar 001 initiating. Time remaining: 150 nimhans.”

(On a distant planet, far, far away, millions of office workers were staring at clocks and counting down to the end  of the day – a count which would be measured in a unit called ‘seconds’, each of which was 1.25 nimhans.)

The mechanical voice paused, then spoke: “Begin.”

Daemoras was tempted to charge in. But, he knew better than that.

The First Form of the Guthnar arts was steady, stable, and designed to defend against a wide variety of attacks – if executed correctly. He didn’t know enough about the Guthnar third form to understand how his brother would react to an opening, or about the Velexa seventh form to understand an attack pattern. So, he performed the First Form’s default move:

He waited.

Avaredias began to circle the ring slowly, his face oriented towards Daemoras. Gentle steps, unhurried.

Daemoras mirrored his movements. Face to face, always. Eyes on the enemy.

Without warning, Avaredias lunged forward. Claws stabbing out, seeking the position where Daemoras would be in a second.

Except, Daemoras wasn’t going to fall into that trap. He slowed his pace, stopping a foot short of the lunge.

Avaredias skidded to a stop. In a move that might almost have been planned, he spun, his forward foot anchoring the spin until he faced Daemoras again.

Stylish. Swift. And, tempting, because it looked like Avaredias had left an opening – one where a quick jab could leave a nasty bruise.

But, too tempting. A Space-qualified Raptor Captain would know better than that.

So Daemoras resisted the bait.

They returned to circling each other.

Avaredias lunged again.

A part of Daemoras’ brain screamed at him: Faster.

Instead of slowing down, Daemoras darted sideways extra fast.

Just in time, too, as Avaredias seemed to shift direction in mid-lunge, twisting towards the right of where he’d aimed…

What a strange coincidence.

Avaredias’ blow sliced through the air, exactly where Daemoras would have been if he’d slowed down. Even if he hadn’t, the blow would at least have impacted his shoulder, leaving him spinning like a top.

Instead…

Avaredias was over-extended.

In his mind’s eye, Daemoras could see how it would play out. His brother would recover naturally, smoothly, snapping back into a standard Third Form defensive position within a nimhans.

His right foot firmly anchored on the ground, Daemoras pushed back as hard as he could. His left foot came up.

And the kick smashed firmly into the recovering Avaredias’ chest.

The blow staggered the older Raptor.

A vision came to him of how his brother would react. The kick wasn’t that hard – but the surprise of it having landed would leave Avaredias perplexed for a half-nimhans.

A long time, in combat.

So Daemoras followed up – fast.

A swift punch, aimed at Avaredias’ vitals. The older Raptor moved to block it – only to expose his kneecap.

For the second time in the bout, Daemoras landed a perfect First Form kick.

This one was accompanied by a cracking sound.

Avaredias fell to one knee. Leaving his face at the perfect height for a punch.

Daemoras swung.

Only to be blocked, as his brother formed a perfect Third Form defense.

Images flickered through Daemoras’ mind of how to break it. Punches. Spears.

Go around and strike from behind.

Take him down while he’s crippled.

… crippled?

“Stop!” Evgenia was yelling. “Stop the bout, now!”

Daemoras fell back. “Avaredias. Are you all right?”

But Avaredias was grinning. “Never better. That was… beautifully executed, brother. How did you learn to spot a Velaxa seventh to Guthnar third transition?”

“Uh – I didn’t. I just, um, it felt like the right time to punch.”

“I see.” Avaredias levered himself off the ground. “Evgenia – the blue bandage please.”

“It says Field Bone Repair pack…”

“Yes, that one.”

“You broke a bone?”

“My brother broke my kneecap.” Avaredias seemed quite proud of the fact. “Which is very, very impressive.”

“…. How? You’re an Edgelord!”

“He’s in training too, but I have my suspicions.” Avaredias stared at him. “Daemoras. How did you know it was the right time?”

“I … sort of saw it. In my mind’s eye.”

Avaredias wrapped the bandage around his knee thoughtfully. “Can you describe what you saw?”

“When you lunged, I could tell you’d hit me if I didn’t speed up. So I did, and that left your belly open for a punch. Then, well – you’d have recovered your position in a nimhans.”

“You guessed, or you saw?”

“I sort of imagined it. Thought it.”

“And the punch-and-kick combo?”

“You were overextended, but you could sort of protect your belly. It wouldn’t kill you if I landed a punch there, but it was the best option unless you put your knee in harm’s way. So I feinted. To block that you needed to reposition – so I could tell where your knee would be.” Daemoras paused. “Does it hurt a lot?”

“I’ve had worse, and the pack will heal the bones fully in a day or two. Not bad, brother, but I need you to do me a favour.”

“Sure!”

“Daemoras, this is important.” Avaredias gripped him by the shoulders. “Promise me.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Daemoras – the ability you have, the one that tells you where I was going to be? Even though your eyes couldn’t see me? That’s called Battlecognition.”

Daemoras drew in a sharp breath. “You mean – like Father and Eldest Brother have?”

“Exactly. Only, yours at least as strong as Harvaxas. Which means you need to keep it a secret.”

“But it’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“The best thing, Daemoras, but not yet. What did Mother tell us about Harvaxas?”

Daemoras shivered. “Don’t let him or his mother get us alone.”

Evgenia looked startled. “Why would you avoid your own brother?”

“Half-brother. And there are good reasons. Remember the Clan Succession Law.”

Evgenia looked pale. “I hadn’t thought of that. But surely it isn’t practiced any more, right? Clanlord Tarragos had a peaceful succession.”

“He is the only survivor of four Scions sired by my grandfather. Two died in battle and one never developed Battlecognition.” Avaredias turned to Evgenia. “That Daemoras has it makes him a contender. The rest of it, I will not speak of for now. I must take Daemoras to our mother, but I hope to see you again?”

“Is this the Scion asking or the Raptor?”

“The Raptor.”

“Then yes, Avaredias, you will see me again.”

The two young Raptors watched Evgenia wordlessly as she walked away.

“I like her,” Daemoras said finally.

“So do I, Daemoras,” Avaredias sighed. “So do I.”

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For the next few days, Daemoras followed his brother’s advice. Avaredias covered for him with Teacher Verraquestras and Mother, and explained his own limp as the result of a training accident with quarterstaves.

Ordinarily, the use of such an antiquated weapon would have raised a few eyebrows, but no-one questioned a Space-qualified Guard Captain. Especially one who happened to be a Scion of the Guthnar.

Daemoras had to downplay his progress with the Huntmaster, though. As their training regimen expnded, Exaremas walked him through the Second Form of the Guthnar, along with a regimen of strength-building exercises and diet changes that would prepare him for the next phase of combat training.

“What about Velaxa fighting forms?” he asked one afternoon.

Exaremas sniffed. “There is no need to practice foreign arts, when we have perfected the truest forms in our own land,” he said. “Velaxa, Mudhvai, and the others claim to have innovations, yet where do they stand amongst the nations of the Raptors? Scarce are their flocks, and scarcer still their wits to not imbibe the perfection of the Guthnar. Do not be misled by their temptations, young Scion – it is in you that the purity of the Guthnar Clan reaches its highest form.”

Daemoras had not known that Exaremas was a Guthnar supremacist, but he dutifully filed the knowledge away. Then again, in one responsible for training the Clanlord’s family, such a mindset was not entirely unexpected….

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Daemoras woke to hands shaking him roughly. “Get up,” his mother’s voice ordered.

The Raptor bolted upright in bed. “What time is it?”

“Sixth peal,” his mother replied. “The day has started. Which means – congratulations. You are now seven cycles old.”

Daemoras gulped. Seven cycles. “Thank you, mother.”

“Happy birthday. Now get up and get dressed. We have a lot to do.” She stood up. “I’ve ordered the attendants to prepare your ceremonial robes.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Your father and the court will be in attendance today. Make sure you act with the dignity befitting a future Scion.”

“Mother,” Daemoras asked, “when do I become a Scion?”

His mother’s gaze bored into him. “I thought Verraquestras had covered that in his lessons.”

“He hasn’t.”

“Perhaps he would have, if you didn’t keep skipping them.”

Daemoras decided to ignore that remark. Primarily because he couldn’t think of anything to say.

Fortunately, his mother had quite a few words of her own. “The offspring of a Clanlord may qualify to be a Scion if they meet certain conditions. First, they must complete seven cycles of age. Second, they must have at least one notable achievement in any field of Raptor endeavour. Art, hunting, combat or science are the four most common fields. Being Gifted with Battlecognition is also considered an achievement, although the use of the Gift must be actively demonstrated – after all, not all Scions possess it.”

“Does Avaredias have a Gift?”

His mother shot him a dark look. “Not yet. And that is a very personal question – and one which you must keep to yourself. Never ask another Scion about whether or not they possess the Gift.”

“Why not?”

“Do as I say, Daemoras. Now get ready.” She beckoned to two attendants, who brought in an ornate robe marked with silver trim and gleaming gemstones.

Privately, Daemoras thought the robe made him look tacky. It certainly wasn’t a hunter’s harness or a field survival pack – in fact, if he ever had to go into the field wearing that, the enemy would be able to locate him from the shine alone. But he kept his thoughts to himself.

This proved immensely practical, as soon he was too busy with the robe fitting to think about much else.

His mother sat on an ornate chair in the middle of the room, watching as they worked. One attendant came by and set a bowl of sweets on the table before her, departing swiftly with many bows. A second attendant stepped into the chamber, carrying a cup of steaming liquid.

“Lady Skavernia,” she bowed. “Your sombeir.”

“Thank you, Morrevani,” his mother responded as she took the drink in her hands. “What have you heard?”

“Very little, Lady,” the attendant bowed deeply. “It was indeed Lady Eleknara who commented on Avaredias’ quarterstave practice.”

“What were her exact words?”

“That his interest in history was suitable for one of his station.”

His mother hissed in anger. “That vile vegetable-eater …. I will speak to my son. Keep your ears and nose open, Morrevani, and let me know if you hear any more news of the First Wife’s actions.”

Daemoras was puzzled. Why would Harvaxas’ mother’s comment anger his mother so? Asking was tempting, but … he wasn’t supposed to eavesdrop on his mother’s conversations.

Instead, he decided to ask a different question - one that had been bothering him for a while.

“Mother, what does it mean to get out of one’s jewelry?”

“Oh?” His mother’s ears perked up. “Where did you hear thatphrase?”

No way he was telling his mother about Evgenia and Avaredias. “I saw it on a show.”

“Describe the situation, Daemoras. Exactly what happened in this show?”

He had a feeling he’d dug himself in too deep. “Well... there was this lady and she was with a Raptor Guard. She said he’d better not be trying to get her out of her jewelry. What does that mean?”

“Daemoras, why don’t you tell me what you think it means?” his mother asked sweetly. Too sweetly.

Daemoras was getting nervous. “It sounded like she thought the Guard would steal her jewelry, but that didn’t make sense. Why would a Guard want to steal her jewelry? Besides, she wasn’t wearing much, just necklaces and bangles…”

“I see.” His mother clicked her tongue, then turned to an attendant. “Send for Avaredias. Tell him I want a word.”

“By your will, Lady Skavernia.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have brought the whole thing up.

His mother regarded him with a cool look. “We’ll discuss this in more detail when you’re older. In the meantime, if any young ladies offer to give you their jewelry, refuse politely and send for me. Or better yet, come and get me immediately. I’ll deal with them.”

“But Lady Mervinara gave me a ring the other day. Should I have refused it?”

“What?” His mother’s eyes were sharp. “When did this happen?”

“At Elkaveras’ nameday ceremony. When I recited that poem, she was very impressed. Said it was good enough to be worthy of a reward. You were there.”

“I was, but I had no idea she had offered you a reward.” His mother sighed. “Mervinara is your half-sister, so it is different. A gift from her – especially a ring – means she acknowledges you as grown, a Raptor in your own right. But a gift from an unrelated young lady – one who is not a half-sister or first cousin – you must not accept it. And under no circumstances accept a necklace or bangle from a young lady, or ask her to give you hers.”

“Why?”

“When your father and I wed, I gave him a handcrafted silver necklace with three rubies, three sapphires and three emeralds as part of the wedding ceremony. He gave me these bangles.” She held up her hands, on which two circlets of gold studded with dozens of diamonds gleamed. “The exchange of jewelry has many meanings amongst our people. An amulet, a necklace, a ring, a brooch, a bangle – each carries a different message. To give and to take also carry varied meanings, as you will learn as you grow older.”

“Will Teacher explain?”

His mother shot him an amused look. “For such questions, it’s best you speak to me alone. Lest Verraquestras confuse you even further.”

“Understood, mother.”

“What would Verraquestras confuse him about?” remarked a cheerful voice.

Avaredias strolled into the room, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “I come as summoned, Mother.” He reached over to the table and grabbed a sweet from the bowl, earning a dirty look from her.

“Do you know the rumours that they’re circulating about you?”

Avaredias shrugged. “More nonsense, I suppose.”

“Your stepmother was heard to comment that your interest in history was suitable for your station.”

“She actually said something nice about someone other than Harvaxas? That’s a first.”

“Don’t laugh this off. Telavestaras, your grandfather’s older brother, was a noted historian. After the Rite of Succession, your grandfather had him imprisoned in the Museum of Ancient Artifacts.”

“That’s morbid.”

“Clanlord Akoreshtas said that those who dwell on the past lack the vision to look to the future.”

“Sounds like something Father would say, too. All this because of one round of quarterstaff practice?”

“The court is a dangerous place, son. Don’t let Eleknara or Harvaxas trap you.”

“I shall be appropriately cautious, mother.” Avaredias bit into the sweet.

“And stop sniffing around Evgenia.”

The Raptor Scion choked, spitting out the sweet. “Mother. We’re just friends.”

“Which is why you were trying to … what was it? Get her out of her jewelry.”

Avaredias gave Daemoras a Look. One of intense betrayal.

“Don’t try to silence your brother, Avaredias. Look at me. Evgenia’s family are Clan professionals, with a specialization in medicine. Two doctors, six nurses, and Evgenia herself is aiming to be the seventh.”

“You know quite a bit about her…”

“I have dossiers on all your classmates, Avaredias. And on your brother’s classmates. And their families.”

Avaredias shrugged. “Apart from violating poor Ev’s privacy – and mine – what does this achieve?”

“Do you think Eleknara doesn’t have just as much information? That she’s not gathering whatever she can, to blackmail or bully those in the Court to support Harvaxas for the next Clanlord?”

Avaredias scowled. “Father has many cycles left in him yet.”

“Harvaxas is a proven Battlecognitive. What if he challenges you?”

“On what grounds?”

“Conduct unbecoming. Low moral character. The possible accusations are many, and merely a screen – all it takes is a hint of impropriety, and you could be facing him across a killing floor.”

“Father would not allow it.”

“There is still the Rite. When Daemoras comes of age….”

“The Rite requires two conditions, Mother. Having four acknowledged Scions is only the first.” Avaredias stared down his mother’s gaze. “The second condition is what Father would object to. Most forcefully.”

“And what if your … paramour … sets a trap for you?”

“We all need someone in our lives in whom we can trust, Mother.”  Avaredias’ voice was soft. “She will not betray me.”

“We’ll discuss this later, Avaredias,” his mother replied, turning her gaze upon Daemoras’ attendants. “Is he ready now?”

Daemoras felt his robe being tugged tight, and a belt he had hardly noticed slipped into place. The attendant to his right bowed. “The young master is ready now.”

“Then let us proceed to the Hall.”

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Raptors believed that their Clanlord should lead them in all matters. War, governance, law, and culture – in all matters, the Clanlord and those around him were expected to be at the forefront. This meant that a Clanlord’s Palace played host to dozens of events every cycle, each celebrating a different aspect of Raptor life.

The Clan Palace of the Guthnar hosted several major rooms, each the centre of one aspect. The War Council Chamber sported vast maps on the walls, showing the geography of every major world with Guthnar settlers, and seats for dozens of generals. The Conclave Hall allowed for diplomats from every Clan to be wined and dined, whenever the Guthnar were to host the Conclave of Clans. In the Court of Laws, the Clanlord presided as final arbiter on legal disputes amongst the Clansmen; and on the Grand Hunting Range, they led the Clan’s finest hunters in chases after challenging prey.

And for social events, there was the Hall of Revels.

Daemoras had been to the Hall often. Each of the Clanlord’s offspring – sons and daughers – celebrated their birthday there. In fact, his last visit had been a scant few days ago, at his half-brother Elkaveras’ twelfth birthday, when he’d recited a poem praising his brother’s achievements.

A poem that had been appreciated greatly by Lady Vistalera, the Clanlord’s third wife and Elkaveras’ mother; and that had resulted in Mervinara quietly approaching him afterwards, and handing the ring to him.

Now that he thought about it, her behaviour had been a bit strange. Gifts were meant to be given openly, not quietly to the side while another celebration was going on. Although – it had been Elkaveras’ ceremony, so perhaps she’d been quiet about it to avoid drawing attention away from the birthday boy?

Stuff like this was – confusing.

On the other hand, today it would be his turn to have poetry recited in his honour. And to receive gifts. Although if another deserving person got a gift too, he wouldn’t mind. As long as it didn’t come out of his share, what was the harm?

The Hall of Revels glittered as he entered, flanked by his mother and brother. Several people were already there, including many of the highborn children.

Off to one side, Lady Eleknara stood with her children, Mervinara and Harvaxas.

“They’re early?” His mother sounded surprised. “They’re never early.”

Avaredias shrugged. “Perhaps Father is expected sooner than planned.”

As if on cue, the outer doors swung open, and a dozen heavily armed Raptor Guards marched into the room, a single figure at their centre.

Clanlord Tarragos of the Guthnar swept his gaze across the attendees. Across the room, dozens of Raptors – the cream of high society – knelt, heads bowed before their overlord.

Tarragos waved his hand, then spoke. “Rise, friends. Today is a joyous occasion.” He marched towards Daemoras, even as the guests found their feet.

Daemoras bowed. “Greetings, Father.”

“Arise, son. I trust you are keeping up with your lessons?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good, good. A sound education is essential for a future Scion.”

“If it please my Lord,” the voice of Lady Eleknara interrupted, “I wish to ask a favour for young Daemoras.”

An expression of surprise flickered across Tarragos’ face for a nimhans. “Eleknara. Am I to understand you wish a favour to be granted to him?”

“Indeed, my Lord. Last week he was able to pen a truly moving work of poetry. So powerful it was, in fact, that young Mervinara was quite overcome.” Lady Eleknara gestured to her daughter. “And such subtleties of expression, such nuances of meaning – it is a work truly beyond the finest of poets.”

Tarragos smiled. “It is good of you to say that. Regrettably, I could not stay for the recital, but certainly it would please me to hear it another time.”

“Mervinara thought the poem worthy of more than mere words; she has deigned to award young Daemoras a seidh ring.”

At the words, Skavernia gasped. Even Avaredias was staring at Eleknara in shock.

The Clanlord frowned. “That is a powerful reward, indeed. Though as a Literary Appraiser of the first rank, Mervinara is certainly within her power to award such.”

“Indeed, and young Daemoras wears it proudly – as befits his achievement. Even now, it adorns his claws.”

“Show me your hands, Daemoras,” his father ordered.

Daemoras complied, the ring shining from his middle claw, where he’d proudly worn it that morning. Tarragos examined it briefly, then nodded. “To win a seidh ring at the age of seven cycles – that is a fine achievement, Daemoras. Even if you had a friendly Appraiser.” He smiled indulgently at Mervinara, who bowed. “I assume this means that the name of young Daemoras should be added to the Great List of Clan Artists. That would certainly make him the youngest to win this honour in a thousand cycles.”

“Eight hundred and seventy-six cycles, to be precise,” Mervinara said. “The last to bear such an honour – to be on a Great List at seven cycles – was Kinset-val-yokaras of the Mudhvai. No Guthnar has even equalled that feat.”

“Your studies of literary history and tradition are thorough, indeed,” Tarragos smiled. “This is a matter of great pride, for both of my offspring. Well done.”

“I would ask, Lord, that we reward Daemoras with more than mere words,” said Eleknara. “To be the youngest Guthnar ever to be placed on a Clan’s Great List of Artists is an achievement of immense merit. One that should earn him the right to be acknowledged as a Scion.”

If Daemoras had been confused before, now he was stunned.

Raised to Scion – now?

At seven cycles?

“It is not without precedent,” Harvaxas spoke up for the first time. “There have been Scions raised as young, before.”

Tarragos inclined his head. “Then tomorrow, we shall see Daemoras in the Hall of the Sword.”

-----------------------------------------

The birthday celebration turned out to be the shortest he’d ever had.

Tarragos had stayed for half a peal, leaving after a short speech mentioning that his youngest would be raised to Scion the next day. That had sparked a hundred hushed conversations across the Hall of Revels, with various guests expressing their congratulations.

Lady Skavernia had smiled and nodded through most of it, accepting congratulations and returning platitudes, for another half-peal before gently ushering Daemoras out of the Hall.

Once they were back in his quarters, she summoned the attendants. “My son is to be taken to the Hall of the Sword tomorrow. Get him appropriate clothing.”

The lead attendant boggled. “My lady – tomorrow? That is not enough time…”

“He is to be named a Scion in less than a day. You have until dawn tomorrow to find him clothing suitable to his station for the ceremony. Or, you can leave the Clan now.” Her gaze swept across the other attendants. “That goes for all of you. Attend to your duties or find another Clan.”

The attendants bowed deeply, then turned and ran.

Avaredias weaved out of the way of a running servant as he entered. “Well, that was chaos.”

“This is too short a time,” his mother muttered. “He does not know enough.”

“Either way, he has to deal with a Raising Ceremony tomorrow, so we need to get him ready.”

Lady Skavernia nodded. “You will walk him through the Ceremony and the rituals of the Blade. I will organize – everything else.” She closed her eyes for a moment, blinked. “I still have the list of contacts from your Ceremony – that priest was good.”

“If by ‘that priest’ you mean Clanspeaker Weretoth, he passed a cycle ago. I think one of his students succeeded him.”

“I will arrange it,” his mother said. “I need you to drill Daemoras in the rituals of the Blade. He cannot get that wrong, you understand? A mistake in the Hall will remove him from being considered a Scion forever.”

“Then he will get it right,” replied Avaredias. “I will ensure it.”

With a firm nod, Lady Skavernia swept out of the room.

Avaredias turned to his brother. “You understand that being raised as a Scion is not a simple act.”

“I didn’t think it would happen this soon.”

“No-one did. The poem – was it that impressive?”

“I… didn’t think so?”

“Never mind that. Even if Mervinara was lying through her teeth – and I’m not saying she was – your becoming a Scion is only to the good.”

“How?”

“By law, a Clanlord may only name four living offspring as Scions in his lifetime. No more.” Avaredias sat down. “So far, that’s Harvaxas, me, and Elkaveras – one Scion from each of Father’s wives. It was expected that he would take a fourth wife to sire another Scion, but that’s out of the window now…”

“Wait – Father was to take another wife?”

“How much do you understand about the sub-clans?”

The answer came immediately to Daemoras from his culture and society lessons. “Five of them – Centrist, Western, Northern, Eastern, and Southern.”

“Grandmother – Father’s mother – was a Centrist, so Father is considered a Centrist-leaning Clanlord. To offset that, he first wedded Lady Eleknara, who is from the Northern highborn; then Mother, who is Western; and Lady Vistalera from the South. One offspring from each has been named Scion, giving each region an equal chance at having a Clanlord leaning towards their culture – and the expectation was that a fourth would be sired on a suitable Easterner lady.”

“But if only four are allowed?”

“Then an Easterner lady would have no chance of having her offspring in the line of succession. And we have twice the chance of having one of us become Clanlord.”

Daemoras swallowed. “I don’t want to be Clanlord.”

“It’s not what we want that matters, but what the Clan needs of us. Understand this – you only become a Scion if you are accepted by the Delta Star Blade.”

“Is the Blade really given to us by the Gods?”

Avaredias snorted. “You’ve been watching cartoons again.”

“Have not.”

“What do you know about the Blade?”

“Well – they say the Blade is powerful enough to cut through a mountain. That only the pure of heart can wield it. That it was crafted by the Divine Blacksmith, and that it will save the Guthnar people in their hour of need.”

“Anything else?”

“That the Blade can only be wielded by the finest Edgelords, that it cannot be destroyed, that the unworthy who lay hands on it will burn in eternal flame…”

“Stop,” sighed Avaredias. “Half of that is completely, the other half is exaggerated, and it’s easiest if you just forget it all. Let’s start from the beginning.” He pulled out a dataslate and passed it to Daemoras. “This is the Delta Star Blade.”

An image of a sword flickered on to the screen. The blade was black as night, and the hilt was wrapped in a silvery metal.

“The Delta Star Blade was forged before the coming of the Hierarchy,” said Avaredias, “by a gifted artisan – one with the power to shape and forge metals into unheard-of forms. It is harder and stronger than anything we possess, even tougher than the metals of the Xeranai themselves.”

Daemoras started. “That can’t be possible. The Xeranai make the strongest materials in the universe.”

“Except for the Delta Star Blade. The Xeranai have attempted to study it a few times, but none of them can duplicate the material, even with all of their arts. We too lack the knowledge to copy it – but whatever it is made of, no known material can scratch it. The sword can cleave through anything, if sufficient force is applied, and be none the worse for the wear. That’s why it is a Clan treasure beyond all others – and has been for countless cycles.”

Daemoras swallowed. “Do the other Clans have similar treasures?”

“None that match the Blade. The right to protect it lies with the Clanlord of the Guthnar alone, and only the Clanlord or one of his Scions has the right to wield the Blade.”

“Can others wield it?”

Averedias smirked. “The Blade has the ability to choose who can – and cannot – wield it. Only those who are descended from a Guthnar Clanlord can do so.”

Daemoras frowned. “So you don’t have to be pure of heart?”

“Based on modern science, it’s more likely you have to have the right genetics. Apparently the artisan wanted only himself, or his descendants, to wield it – and somewhere in the Guthnar family line, we have a genetic sequence that traces back to him.”

“What happens if someone who doesn’t have the sequence tries to wield it?”

“The Blade turns red-hot. So, burnt claws.”

“… and that’s how the rumour that it burns the unworthy got started?”

“Smart boy,” smirked Avaredias. “Now what you need to know is – the Blade won’t hurt you. If you are confident, you can grasp it and wield it against an enemy – but if you have doubts, the Blade has some way of detecting that. And then it just becomes a very heavy sword.”

“But if you are confident, it’s more?”

“Exactly. With the Blade in hand, an artist can fight at the level of an Edgelord – and an Edgelord can challenge the heavens themselves.” Avaredias sighed. “It took me nearly three cycles of practice, training, and actual combat to qualify as an Edgelord. The Blade enhances your reflexes, speeds up your perception of time, and helps you win against a far more powerful opponent. So, only the Clanlord or the Prime Scion is trusted with it - but every Scion needs to show that they are capable of holding the Blade without burning themselves.”

Daemoras frowned. “What’s the Prime Scion?”

A look of sorrow passed across Avaredias’ face. “Once the Clanlord calls for a Rite of Succession, the winner among the Scions is named Prime Scion.”

“It needs four grown Scions before the Rite of Succession can be called,” Daemoras blurted. “I know that much.”

“I can see you were listening today,” Avaredias replied. “Yes. Four acknowledged Scions.”

“Then – could my being raised mean that the Rite of Succession will get called?”

“Smart thinking, but you don’t have the full story.” Avaredias leaned forward. “There are two conditions for a Rite of Succession to be called. One, the Clanlord must have acknowledged four Scions. Two – at least one of the acknowledged Scions must have been killed.”

Daemoras turned white. “One of us has to die?”

“The early Clanlords saw their Scions wage all-out war against each other, to capture the leadership of the Clan. Clansman against clansman, in battles that left the Clan weaker than before. So they placed this rule – no Scion could fight, or kill, another Scion. That lasted for less than a generation, as Scions were assassinated by their rivals one by one, with the others unable to strike back without being declared outlaw. Hence a new rule was made.” Avaredias stood up. “Scions can fight each other – but only after one has died due to any other cause.”

“Even if it was an accident?”

“A murder can be made to look like an accident or a suicide. The only requirement is that one Scion must die – from any cause.” Avaredias stared into his brother’s eyes. “Only when one of us four is dead can the Rite of Succession be triggered.”

“What happens in the Rite of Succession?”

“All surviving Scions are called to the Hall of Swords, and there – in the presence of the Delta Star Blade – they prove their worthiness to lead.” Avaredias’ gaze was mirthless. “By killing each other.”

Daemoras hugged his brother. “I don’t want to fight you.”

“You won’t have to, brother. The Rite of Succession only happens if someone dies. Father succeeded without it – he simply outlived his Battlecognition-gifted brothers, and allowed our uncle to retire peacefully.” Avaredias smirked. “If you want to retire and be a poet, I promise to be a good Clanlord and let you do whatever you want.”

“Very funny,” Daemoras growled. “What if I become Clanlord?”

“Then you can do the work, and Evgenia and I will expect lots of gifts for our babies.”

Daemoras stepped back. “Your babies? You’re really going to marry her?”

“What’s the point of being a Scion if I can’t even be with the one I love?” Avaredias said. “Although I’d appreciate if you kept that part quiet from Mother. Now, let’s focus on what you have to actually doduring the ceremony….”

-----------------------------------------

The next morning, Daemoras found himself headed for the Hall of the Sword.

At least this time, he didn’t have to wear ornate robes. After much chaos and havoc in unsuccessfully trying to find a robe suitable to the station of a Scion in a Raising Ceremony, Lady Skavernia had been willing to listen to Avaredias’ advice.

Who had pointed out that it was acceptable for Scions to take the Raising Ceremony in battle gear. After all, valour was one of the accomplishments that called for a Raising in the first place.

So Daemoras was wearing his first-ever combat uniform.

Not the training gear he’d practiced with. No, Avaredias had arranged an actual set of Edgelord battlegear, with armour to cover his vitals and vulnerable spots, at incredibly short notice. The fit was perfect, too - almost as if it had been sitting somewhere on the off chance he needed it. There was even a combat knife in his size.

He tried not to think about what that meant.

When he strode into the Hall of the Sword, the audience was smaller than at his celebration – but more weighty.

Clan advisors stood by, watching. Governors, Administrators, Captains with many cycles of experience. Some of them had been fighting wars before he was born.

As a Scion, he would have the right to command them.

On the other side, Harvaxas and Lady Eleknara stood, watching. Not unexpected. Next to them, his mother and Avaredias waited.

Both his brothers had chosen to wear their combat uniforms, an odd symmetry amongst the three. A show of support?

Surprisingly, Lady Vistalera and his half-brother Elkaveras were missing. Perhaps they were late? Or, more likely, Elkaveras might have taken offence that a boy of seven cycles was being raised to Scion when he himself had only been allowed the privilege at twice the age…

Clanlord Tarragos himself stood at the centre of the Hall, next to a massive steel vault.

As Daemoras entered, he bowed to his Father. “I, Daemoras of Clan Guthnar, hereby present myself for the Judgment of the Blade.”

“I, Tarragos of Clan Guthnar, acknowledge my son Daemoras and present himself for the Judgment of the Blade,” his father replied. “Let him place his hands upon its hilt, and be Judged as worthy of a Scion – or cast from our ranks as forever unworthy to lead. This I ask in the memory of my ancestors!”

The steel vault slid open, revealing the Blade.

Pictures had not done it justice.

Daemoras wondered what would happen if the Blade rejected him. Would he truly be cast out? Or would the heat of the Blade’s hilt burn him to a crisp before he could react?

His brother’s words came back to him. “Do not fear. In the last three generations, no potential Scion has ever been rejected by the Blade.”

He couldn’t shake the thought that he’d somehow be the first.

“Step forward,” Clanlord Tarragos commanded.

Daemoras obeyed and placed his hand upon the hilt.

For an instant, heat crept up his hand.

Then, it was gone.

The Blade felt cool to the touch. Comfortable.

He lifted it and held it up.

Images flashed through his mind. Great armies, thousands strong, marching to war. Battles fast and furious, swords clashing, Raptors dying around him.

More violence, more destruction, as the weapons grew deadlier.

Only the Blade endured.

He didn’t know how long he’d been holding it. It felt like hours…

… there were cheers.

He snapped out of the vision.

Around the Hall, Raptors were cheering and clapping. The same generals who had been so serious a few moments ago wore smiles on their faces, the Court officials were applauding, and his father…

His father wore an expression of pure joy.

“Let it be known,” he announced, “that my Scion Daemoras has been chosen by the Blade! The Clan of Guthnar has a new Scion!”

His mother was smiling, and Avaredias – Avaredias was grinning like a lunatic.

Even Harvaxas – his taciturn, terrifying older half-brother – wore an expression of deep satisfaction.

“Well done,” his father whispered softly, clapping him on the back. “Now, son, I think it’s best you put down the Clan’s most valued treasure. You’ll wield it well enough in time.”

Swallowing, Daemoras placed the Delta Star Blade back in its place within the Vault. Instantly, the images – the memories, he realized – faded, acquiring a dreamlike quality.

“Once you have drawn the Blade, you must meditate on its revelations,” Tarragos continued. “Reflect on them and it will make you a better warrior. Your mother arranged the priest for the First Meditation Ceremony?”

“Yes, father.”

“Good, good.” Tarragos nodded. “You have made me proud today, Daemoras.” Frowning, he glanced towards the doors. “What is going on there?”

Daemoras hadn’t been paying attention, but he spotted the commotion now. The doors to the Hall had opened, and the crowd was parting.

Amidst them stood Lady Vistalera.

She looked … terrible.

Unlike the other Raptor ladies in attendance, she wore no jewelry. As for her robe – it seemed little more than nightwear. Wholly unsuitable for a formal gathering, even Daemoras could tell that much.

Around her, silence prevailed, as the rest of the attendees seemed unsure how to treat this apparition.

“Vistalera,” his father spoke. “What has happened?”

“My son is dead.”

Tarragos’ expression was one of shock. “How?” he stuttered.

“Poisoned,” hissed Vistalera. “By that one’s creature.”

Her claw swept forward, pointed straight at…

Lady Skavernia.

Mother.

Who seemed just as stunned as the rest of the court.

“This one’s servant – one Morrevani – snuck a versperine pill into Elkaveras’ soup. Disguised as a harmless root. It took two hours to dissolve – exactly as long as it takes for the taster to pass the soup as safe, and for Elkaveras to drink it.” Vistalera’s voice trembled. “We had cameras in the kitchens that saw her. Morrevani has fled the Palace – I want her found. And I want her punished.”

“I had nothing to do with it!” shouted Skavernia. “I am being framed!”

“This will be investigated,” rumbled Tarragos. “Vistalera – I will find who did this. The Clan investigators will study the matter thoroughly…”

“She ordered it!” screeched Vistalera. “You stand there, your son’s body not yet cold, and you talk to me of investigation? The whole Palace knows that Morrevani is Skavernia’s creature! And you still shield her!”

“Lady Vistalera,” Harvaxas spoke up. “I will stand guarantor for your loss. Elkaveras was my favourite brother.” He stepped forward, arms relaxed. “You deserve your vengeance. You deserve justice. I will give them to you.”

Tarragos’ gaze swiveled to his son. “Are you volunteering to lead the hunt for Morrevani?”

“Father, Morrevani is already being pursued,” Harvaxas replied. “My personal armsmen will aid in that hunt – but that is not truly justice. Justice demands restitution, or equity.” His eyes bored into Lady Skavernia. “The Lady has done the unthinkable – ordered the assassination of a stepson, just as her own offspring have been elevated to Scions. This has happened before, and there is only one just outcome for it.”

Tarragos’ face paled. “Harvaxas – you cannot.”

“I am within my rights,” replied the Scion. “I, Harvaxas of Clan Guthnar, invoke the Law of Succession and call for a Rite of Succession against my brothers Avaredias and Daemoras. By law they are given the time needed to reach the Hall of the Sword to prepare.” His gaze swept the room. “It seems they are already present, and Daemoras is already in combat armour. We can proceed.”

“Brother,” Avaredias spoke. “Don’t drag Daemoras into this. He is too young.”

“He is a Scion,” replied Harvaxas, “and the three of us are already armoured and ready for battle. He is old enough to hold his own.”

Avaredias flinched. His gaze turned to Tarragos. “Father. Surely you cannot allow this.”

Tarragon seemed to have aged a hundred cycles. He spoke haltingly. “It is his right.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Harvaxas walked to the centre of the chamber, a circle widening around him. “Brothers. Scions. Shall we begin?”

Daemoras felt Avaredias’ hand on his shoulder. “Daemoras….” The older Scion’s voice trailed off. “Stay alive.”

And with that, he stepped forward to face Harvaxas.

The older Raptor had his sword drawn. Avaredias took a deep breath, pulling his sword from its scabbard, and took up a position from one of the Forms that Daemoras couldn’t remember the name of.

“Brother,” Avaredias spoke. “I am ready.”

Harvaxas blurred.

In an instant, his blade was striking at Avaredias’ chest.

Who had moved, just enough to block.

Blades clashed, the sound of steel filling the chamber. Once. Twice. Thrice.

And Avaredias was pushed back.

Harvaxas’ blade moved with unearthly speed, attacking from one angle after another. Avaredias blocked again. And again. And again.

The fourth time, he failed.

A lightning-fast move, and a wound had opened up on Avaredias’ cheek. Harvaxas sauntered back. “A pity you lack Battlecognition,” he replied. “It would make this more of a challenge.”

Avaredias smiled mirthlessly. “I apologize for the lack of entertainment.”

“It won’t be for long,” replied Harvaxas. “Once this is done, I plan to take a nice, long, relaxing swim. Perhaps with a few select playmates – I had this one nurse in mind…”

Avaredias moved.

In an instant, he had crossed the distance to Harvaxas, his blade lunging out. A picture-perfect attack.

Only, Harvaxas was already in motion. The older Raptor’s sword thrust into Avaredias’ chest, erupting from his back.

A short gurgle cut through the silence.

Then, Avaredias’ body slid to the floor.

Harvaxas stood up, staring at the corpse of the dead Scion. His eyes roamed to the sword. “A pity.”

The Scion sauntered forward. “I liked that sword a lot. Oh well.” A glance at Daemoras. “You have your dagger, boy?”

Daemoras swallowed. “I do.”

“Take it out of its sheath.”

Exaremas’ lessons flashing through his mind, Daemoras drew the blade. In the light of the chamber, it gleamed.

Harvaxas nodded solemnly. “The Huntmaster has trained you properly, at least.” He pulled out a dagger of his own – a wicked thing of blackened steel, half again the length of the one Daemoras held. “Acquit yourself with dignity, as Avaredias did.”

In his mind’s eye, Daemoras could see what would happen next.

Harvaxas would walk forward, unmenacingly. He wouldn’t use Battlecognition – not against an untrained Raptor half his age and height. He didn’t need it.

All he would need to do was get within range and then – strike. And there was no way Daemoras could fight off an Edgelord, a battle-hardened Space-qualified Raptor Captain, or a Battlecognition-capable Scion – much less all three in one – with only a dagger. Or for that matter, with any weapon in the Raptor armory.

Except one.

Harvaxas walked forward menacingly.

Daemoras coughed. Hard. As hard as he could.

Harvaxas slowed, an expression of pity on his face.

Daemoras went his knees. Faking a cough wasn’t hard, but giving the expression that he had a serious lung problem… that required him to expose the vulnerable back of his neck to Harvaxas.

His arms hung limp by his side, the dagger held only loosely – almost as if it would slip at any moment.

Someone was crying in the background – it sounded like his mother.

He could see his brother’s feet as he approached. Harvaxas spoke, as if tired. “I’ll make this quick, young Daemoras.”

He could sense Harvaxas aim his dagger, almost reluctantly, even as he continued to cough.

He tightened his grip on the dagger.

As Harvaxas swept his hand down, he struck.

His hand shot up, dagger first, and he leapt.

Harvaxas’ Battlecognition gave him a fraction of a nimhans warning. The older Raptor moved back suddenly.

But not fast enough.

Daemoras’ blade stabbed through the Scion’s jaw.

Harvaxas staggered back. Even wounded, he was a warrior with years of trained reflexes. Instantly, he took a defensive position similar to the Third Form Avaredias had demonstrated before.

In doing so, he dropped his dagger.

Daemoras snatched it up and hurled, his hands guided by Battlecognition.

The dagger slammed into Harvaxas’s eye.

As the Scion’s body fell backwards, Daemoras became aware of the rest of the occupants of the Hall. His mother had stopped crying, and Lady Eleknara..

Eleknara was staring at him in shock. And dismay.

“Battlecognition,” she whispered. “You have… Battlecognition.”

Daemoras stood up.

He wondered what the protocol was for the winner of a Rite of Succession. Something Avaredias had never told him – and never would.

A voice cut through the rising hubbub. “By the judgment of the Blade, and the Law of Succession. The Rite is complete.” His father.

The Clanlord stood over the body of Avaredias, ashen-faced.  “Daemoras. Prime Scion of the Guthnar. You bear the duty of the Blade.” He swallowed. “May you bear it better than your forebears.” He turned to Eleknara. “I believe, my lady, that you should spend some time… in isolation. Contemplating what your schemes have brought you to.”

Eleknara bowed her head. “Clanlord…”

“My judgment in this matter is final,” Tarragos said, “unless you wish to ask for the Prime Scion to speak on your behalf.” His gaze swept back to Daemoras. “Somehow I don’t think he will.”

Defeated, Eleknara bowed.

Tarragos turned to Vistalera. “I suspect you understand now whose creature Morrevani truly was? Will you accept my decision?”

“My son is still dead,” murmured Vistalera.

“So are three of mine. I doubt you could have asked for a greater vengeance, even against your worst enemy. Leave it be. Daemoras, attend me.”

Wordlessly, Daemoras walked forward … to his mother’s side.

Lady Skavernia’s eyes were streaked with tears. “My son,” she whispered. “You have to be brave.”

Daemoras nodded. “I will learn to be.” He looked upon the body of Avaredias, still warm in the heat of the Hall. “I will be worthy of him.”

-----------------------------

Author's Note: Hi folks! 

Thank you for opting for the Tier system. I know some of you have faced difficulties and there have been a few bugs - so thanks for your patience and continuing support!

As a special reward for tiered patrons, I'm releasing the first of (hopefully) several side stories. This is a Patreon exclusive and will not be published on RR or any other website. 

Once again, thank you for your patronage, which helps me to keep writing!