Ascension

         “I have come to take the Trial of Ascension” I intoned in Durae, the formal language of the Mino-Sijara brotherhood.
    Speaker Kesrin stared at me intently, as if weighing me in his mind, then nodded his acquiescence.  “As you wish.  Remember, once you enter the proving grounds, you can only leave once you have completed the test.”  Having said this, he hauled up on the door that led down to the mausoleum, and gestured me downwards.  I obeyed, clambering down the rope ladder, which he drew up as soon as I had descended, leaving me to my fate.
         The still air of the mausoleum seemed to press in at my nostrils, redolent with the musty scent of rotting gravecloths and long since decayed bones.  From the antechamber, four corridors of roughly hewn stone branched out, each lined with the coffins of my predecessors in the Mino-Sijara Brotherhood, each leading to a different caste of the Brotherhood. Ideally, I should be drawn to the caste that suited me best, and unerringly head down that hallway.  Despite this, I felt no particular pull in any direction
         Uneasy in the flickering torchlight, I loosened my broadsword in the scabbard looped over my shoulder.  This was, though finely made, a clumsy weapon, not at all the equal of the malthorin I would bear someday.  Still, I reflected, it was better than going unarmed.  Though not at all sure what this trial would entail, I had chosen to arrive armed, aware that there was never a time in my life when I’d been sorry to be carrying a blade, and plenty of occasions where I wished I’d had one.
         I seated myself in the center of the bare chamber, entering the meditative trance that would supposedly make me more receptive to the spirits of this place.  After what seemed like an eternity, I felt nothing.  Nothing at all.  I rose, deciding that the gods help those who help themselves, and headed towards the eastern passage.  Instantly, I crumpled to the floor, consumed with a feeling of nausea and a fiery pain that seemed to course through my veins.  Resolving not to give in to this assault, I turned around, heading towards the western passage.  As I neared the center, the sickness faded, only to return when I stepped into the mouth of the western corridor.
         Not wishing to repeat that particular experience, but glad to be making some progress-after all, now I knew which two corridors not to take- I repeated the same procedure with North and South, with similarly unpleasant results.
         I returned to the center, where the capricious spirits of this place seemed to want me to stay.  My leather boots scraped on the wooden floor as I seated myself once again.  Abruptly, I sat up. Wooden floor?  The mausoleum was built of stone!  Rising again, I discovered a depression in the floor, in which rested an iron ring.  I pulled on this, and the clicking of some ancient mechanism heralded the silent swing of the wooden trapdoor, beckoning me further down, down a flight of stone stairs.
         I arrived in another chamber, this one with an emblem on the floor.  The symbol depicted a black hand, fingers outspread, with a length of chain wrapped around the wrist.  The hand I recognized as the universal symbol of the Mino-Sijara.  However, the chain was unfamiliar to me.  Each discipline in the brotherhood shares the hand; for the warriors, it holds a blade, for the wizards, a staff.  But the chain was unfamiliar to me.
         The flare of a ring of torches around the chamber shook me from my musings.  As I watched, entranced, light seemed to flow from one ring to the other, forming a circle that soon became a wall of blue and golden flames.  My wonderment soon turned to horror as the wall became a noose, closing around me.  Abruptly, the flames flowed towards a central point above my head, then poured down over me.  And for a time, I knew no more.

                   *                    *                    *
         I awoke in the dueling hall of Keltorn, the Brotherhood Fortress.  From the far side of the room, I heard the ring of steel on steel, and perceived a note of desperation in the sound.  A ring of stone-faced onlookers was gathered around one of the sparring areas, with none of the cheers and shouted advice that usually accompany duels.  I shouldered my way through the black-garbed crowd, and witnessed the cause of their sobriety.
         Duels, though common among the Brotherhood, are rarely fought to the death, and are always adjudicated by one of the Masters.  Thus, those who seek to challenge others must first petition the overseer of the floor, who, based on the relative skill levels, will approve or forbid the match.  Clearly, something was wrong here.  A lean and strong warrior with a long scar running down his right cheek and wielding a pair of shortswords was battering a young novice, who held a single longsword that was much too large for him.  As the aggressor lashed out, the young warrior struggled to lift his blade for the parry.  Each time, the block came a little later, and soon, I knew, the fight would be called off as the young man dropped from exhaustion.
         Convinced that the Master must, surely, end this fight, I watched with growing concern.  Suddenly, the defender dropped his guard, and the older warrior moved in for the kill, rapping his left hand sword against the forte of the longsword and sending it spinning away.  His right hand came down in a savage overhand chop that would hew straight through his victim’s neck.  None interfered, for this was a matter of honor.
         “Drelth,” I muttered to myself, a curse among my people for which there is no translatable equivalent.  In one motion, I stepped forward and interposed my broadsword between the shortsword and the boy’s neck.  Scarface stepped back in surprise, giving me time to adjust my grip.  His left hand blade came at me in an upwards sweep towards my hip, but I picked that strike off, sending his blade wide before returning to the low guard I held in front of my body.  Next, he employed his double blades in a scissors motion, the right scything in at my neck and the left again whistling towards my torso.  I leapt back, letting Scarface cleave air with his strike, and grinning teasingly at my opponent.
         Enraged, the young man launched a flurry of blows at me, short chops at my face and neck.  I picked each of them off before they came in range, using the longer reach my weapon afforded me.  I feigned weariness from withstanding the savage onslaught.  The warrior grinned and stepped in close, employing the same scissors motion, this time with nowhere for me to retreat to.  I dropped to my knees, the jarring impact sending a wave of pain through my legs, and rolled to my left, towards my opponent.  Before he could recover from the momentum of his blow, I had completed my somersault, and reoriented myself, hammering a blow into the man’s midsection and dropping him to the floor.
         As soon as the warrior fell, the circle of onlookers closed in, pummeling me.  After I was disarmed and held to the ground, one of the Masters stepped over me, his claymore raised over his head.  Breaching the code of honor that governs duels among my people is punishable by death.  I heard the sound of his blade whistling down, then darkness claimed me once more.

                   *                    *                    *
         I awoke again, this time lying on a beach of pure white sand.  A soft breeze blew over my face, and the sun shone warm and pleasantly on me.  I rose to my feet, noticing that the bruises I had taken in my earlier battle remained, disproving my dream theory.  Surveying my surroundings, I spotted a small grouping of huts further up the beach.  Moving at a leisurely pace, I strode forward to investigate.  The scents of roasted meat and fresh fruit drifted to me, bringing an unconscious smile to my face.  I heard low voices emanating from within one of the grass-roofed buildings, and I halted, recognizing one of the speakers.  I put my eye to a knothole in the hut’s wall.
         Reeling with shock, I attempted to assimilate what I was seeing.  Robert Mereel, the man responsible for the maintenance of the Brotherhood’s archives and museum, was reclining on a low sofa, flanked by two gorgeous, dark-skinned women.  Facing him over a table with a heavy chest on it was a man I didn’t recognize.  Short and obese, this man dressed in heavy velvets and was adorned with chains of gold and silver.  The blazon on his tunic was that of the open purse, with a gold and black bar over the top, signifying him as being a banker by trade and belonging to the Krilon League of Commerce. 
         The obese man spoke, his oily voice calling to mind the dull sheen of colors that forms on the surface of spoiled meat, “These are the artifacts, I presume, Mr. Mereel?” “Yes.  The boots worn by Laish Morthan and the helm of Sir Guldan.  Also, a number of enchanted rings, providing enhancements ranging from sharper hearing to regenerative capabilities.”  Mereel, the curator of the Brotherhood’s treasure trove of enchanted items, was selling off our most prized artifacts, items that had played an integral role in our history.  Even worse, given enough time, a magician or group of magicians could duplicate these items.  This would tip the scales dramatically in Krila’s favor in the ongoing power struggle between the nations of the world. 
         “Excellent, excellent.”
         “And my payment?”  Mereel sounded disgusted with this whole affair.  I should have killed him then, but I was intensely curious as to what coinage could possibly sway him into such a stunning act of betrayal.  The fat man beckoned to Mereel, and the two rose, walking towards another building, this one nearly forty feet long.
         I shadowed them, and ducked into the shadows of their destination before they could see me.  After they entered, I slipped in behind them, sidling against a wall to reduce my visibility.
         Where the first hut had been a miniature paradise, redolent with fragrant spices and lavish in its appointments, this one stank of fear.  Sniffing the air, I detected trace odors of blood, with a strong scent of excrement and urine.  At the far end of the building, a girl sat chained to a post, three men standing guard over her.  From the shape of her jaw and her strong cheekbones, I quickly discerned that this was Mereel’s daughter.
         “Oh, Jasra.”  Robert sobbed as he saw the deplorable condition of his child.  Mangy and filthy, she looked up at the sound of her father’s voice, mustering the strength to smile weakly. 
         “As soon as my men take possession of the chest, I will give you the key to these shackles.”  The man was lying.  I could see it in the way his eyes flickered, in the cant of his head, the inexplicable confidence in his voice.
         “Damn you, Valon.  You promised me she was being kept safe, and here she is, caged like some…animal.”
         “But she is unharmed, is she not?”
         Robert nodded unhappily.  “All right.  Take the chest, and give me the key.”  Fool! Could he not see that Valon was lying?  No, I realized, he could not.  He was blinded by his concern for his daughter.  I knew that this could only end one way.  In blood.
         I dove forward, my right arm drawing my broadsword as my left tossed a broad-bladed dirk and scabbard to Mereel.  I came to my feet directly in front of Valon.  Planting a foot in his ample belly, I kicked him to the side, reasoning that he was no threat.  I swept my sword into a high guard and began circling the soldier to my left, who held a short hafted battle axe.  He chopped down at me, and I twisted to the side, my blade coming down right-to-left to strike his unprotected shoulder.  The man gasped in pain, and I took advantage of his hesitation, hewing my blade into his neck and moving to aid Mereel, who desperately battled against the two soldiers.  I took advantage of their preoccupation and bashed one in the temple with the pommel of my blade, sending him crumpling to the ground.  Mereel quickly dispatched the other, and moved to my side.
         “Thank you for your aid, whoever you are.”  I started to respond, but the whole room shifted and blurred.
                                       *          *          *
         The blurred walls resolved themselves into what appeared to be some type of audience chamber.  I looked down and realized I was standing in the center of the circular room, and the floor was again adorned with the black hand grasping a chain.  Suddenly, I perceived that this was all a test, that this was part of the trial. 
         “Correct, Brother Elethan.  But you are not finished yet.”  One of the men croaked, his voice harsh and guttural.
         “You will explain to us two things: First, why did you slay the warrior in the dueling hall, and why did you not kill Mereel the second you knew of his perfidy?”
         My mind racing, aware that the answers to these questions could very well decide my fate in the next few moments, I spoke the first words to come to my mind.
         “The man in the dueling hall had already violated the code of honor.  There was no Master, he was battling a foe far weaker than he, and he nearly struck down an unarmed boy.  By doing so, he forfeited his right to be treated with the same honor that he had failed to display.” 
         I detected a smile in the voice of the second speaker, this one a woman.
         “Very good. And the second question?  Why did you not kill Mereel?”
         “Whether or not he deserved to die was not my decision to make.  Without all the facts, I could not slay my Brother.”
         “Excellent.  Now, let us tell you what you have done.  By saving the boy, you demonstrated a willingness to forsake the Code when the actions imposed by the Code are both foolish and not in accordance with the spirit in which the laws were made.  You also displayed that you are not afraid to take action when action is requried.  By aiding Mereel, you showed that you understand the importance of understanding the situation before you decide the correct course.  All of these things make you an excellent candidate for the Warders Guild.”
         “What is the Warder’s guild?” I asked, my curiosity outweighing my fear of the consequences for such a bold inquiry.
         “We are the watchers.  We observe the others in the Brotherhood, and ensure that they are following the True Path.  Should one of them betray us or dishonor the Brotherhood, we punish them.  We are also called to maintain the balance of power.  Should one nation grow too powerful, a war will begin that consumes all nations.  This is why our symbol is the chain.  We are the ones who bind our Brothers to their word, and keep the powers of the world in check.”
         “I will serve as a Watcher.”
“Excellent.”  The woman smiled.  “Now, in the name of the Hand and the Chain, I bid you rise, and join us.  What is your name?”
         “Elethan…” my voice trailed off, suddenly unsure.  An image drifted through my mind, and I saw myself for what I would be: a shadow, a phantom, drifting through the corridors of power and might, dispensing justice and keeping my Brothers true to their oaths.
         “Wraith.  I shall be called Wraith, and they shall fear the silence that I bring.”