LIGHTNOVELONLINE Chapter 3 - The Dagger
Mons fell backward, growling in pain with his abdomen split open, innards threatening to spill out of him, as he clutched his belly, desperate to hold everything in.
“What in the Seven Hells is this?!” Schmal failed to understand what just took place before him. He took his eyes off Mons for a second as he was about to shoot Dolor through the back of his head with a Purple bolt. Schmal thought it would be hilarious if after saying ‘Bang’ he held another ten-second pause before actually shooting Dolor, he used to refer to this practice of mental torture of his victims as “edging”. But just as he was about to execute Dolor, Schmal heard the agonizing screams of his partner who was now lying on the snow-covered ground and attempting to keep his guts from spilling all over the snow, which was beginning to take the color of the orc’s dark brown blood.
Schmal’s thoughts began racing. “Was Dolor a secret member of the Resistance? Perhaps a foreign spy? None of this was mentioned in the fucking briefing notes, that’s for sure. Is he working with someone? Are we currently surrounded or outnumbered?” Schmal began unraveling a wide-reaching web of thoughts and mental nodes connecting them in his head to analyze the situation. Despite being widely known as a bit of a crazy wacko, the Bureau hired Schmal and continued to advance his career not because of his apparent sadism, but despite it. Schmal’s real ability, and the reason he was moving fast up the SSB ladder, was his unnatural ability to take in large amounts of information, process it, and construct a coherent and simple picture of the situation. That understanding allowed him to make lightning-fast decisions that would result in the best possible outcome. He needed to save Mons. That was his duty as magekind and as his senior officer. He canceled the Purple lighting bolt he was about to cast on the back of Dolor’s head and cast Burst of Speed on himself instead. In 3 quick steps, he reached Mons, wincing from pain, and began casting Stasis on his partner to stem the orc’s bleeding.
“Lance Corporal, you are full of surprises, I must admit. Are you going to introduce me to your secret friend who is helping you? I think it’s only fair considering that he attacked my friend over here, who happens to be an Officer of the State, and not just any officer, but an Officer of the State Security Bureau, arguably the highest authority in the country, only behind the Leader himself!”
Schmall was scanning every nook of every building that was surrounding them. He saw every window, every balcony, every silhouette of every resident of the nearby apartment buildings, who were smoking aimlessly, arguing with each other over trivial matters, or just looking out into the distance. He could not identify a threat. "That’s impossible," he thought. "How else could they be under spell fire?”
Dolor felt leather. The sensation of touching the rough-napped leather came to him the moment before the big orc collapsed screaming. But he was not touching any leather. As Schmal was kneeling beside his partner, Dolor could see how the elf was scanning his surroundings and looking for hidden attackers while pretending to converse with Dolor.
“I have no friends, officer, I am not sure what is going on,” Dolor responded candidly.
“Stay where you are and do not move a single muscle, Dolor. You know I am perfectly capable of popping your head like a zit, even from here, right?” Schmall cautioned Dolor, who continued to sit on his knees, unmoved. Dolor nodded in response, as he undoubtedly knew that from his time in the Revolutionary Army, what a single capable mage could do to a manaless nobody like him.
“Schmal!” Mons was wheezing heavily as strength was slowly leaving his body under the effects of heavy blood loss. “Schmal…I felt…I felt a stab…and as if I was being cut.”
“Cut? You think you were attacked by a magicarm?” Schmall continued rapidly, scanning his surroundings for any sign of the attacker. “I could not identify any attackers, Monsy. Did you see where the attack came from?”
“No…too fast…I just felt my stomach…being ripped open...by something sharp…” Mons was drifting out of consciousness.
“Just hang in there, Monsy old boy, I will get you out of here, I promise. I promised your wife, too. And she and my wife go to Homemaking Magic classes together, so I would never hear the end of it. You hear me Monsy? Just stay with me. I have signaled for Healers to come already. They will be here in a couple of minutes. Stay with me, Mons. Come on, big guy, keep your eyes open, ok?” Mons was barely keeping his eyes open and hanging on to his consciousness, only guided by Schmal’s distant voice.
“The sheath!” Dolor was so suddenly enlightened by the thought that he did not notice how he yelled it out loud.
“What?” asked Schmal confusedly.
“The type of rough-napped leather that I felt right before your partner collapsed. It’s the type of leather used to line scabbards and sheaths of cold magicarms! It was on the tip of my tongue, and I just couldn’t remember where I felt this leather before,” Dolor realized he messed up but continued engaging with the elf attempting to see if he could find a window of opportunity to run out of the magent's line of sight and avoid his magic bolt.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Dolor? Are you trying to distract me? Come on and fess up! Are you being hunted by the BRATVA members? Maybe you have a political terrorist ex with whom you had a nasty breakup? Or are you a foreign spy who is being cut loose by his supervisors? Or does your late father perhaps still have friends in high Conclave positions? None of that was in the briefing notes though,” asked Schmal, continuing to scan every inch within his field of vision and failing to find anything.
“So, you do read the briefing notes, huh?” murmured Mons, with a weak voice barely escaping his diaphragm.
“Of course I do. I am not just a pretty little mage enjoying his state-mandated position and unearned privilege, you know!” exclaimed Schmal.
Thirty-three years ago, a political uprising took place in what was then known as the High Kingdom of Lestralla. The kingdom was led by a royal family, whose names were now lost to history after being purged from all the records and history books, and it was illegal to say their names out loud for as long as Dolor could remember. The monarch, now only known as the Last King of Lestralla or LKL was in charge during the Revolt of 9871. LKL was a figure that continued to divide opinion long after his death. Dolor recalled how his mother, usually after a hard shift at the factory and after having had several glasses of the cheap alcoholic swill anyone could get for a single mana ticket, would go on endlessly about LKL and his legacy. On one day she would condemn his name and decry his bestial cruelty towards his subjects, on another day she would speak of him with a sort of dismissive sympathy as a dying sick old man who was not aware of what was going on in the kingdom and what actions were being carried out in his name. Sometimes, his mother would even speak of him in positive terms, as a strong leader who helped ensure the safety of the kingdom against foreign enemies and maintained political order without placing undue restrictions on the people’s liberty.
Dolor did not have any opinion on LKL, and he did not care to have one. All he knew was that his father and mother were part of the political movement that sympathized with the oppressed mages and was inspired by the Leader. The Conclavists, as they became later known, ended up deposing and gruesomely executing the former king and establishing what would become known as the Supreme Conclave. Often referred to as simply the Conclave, a new governing body was established to rule over the territories of the High Kingdom on behalf of the liberated masses, The Conclave was a gathering which included the most prominent revolutionary leaders, including Dolor’s father, and which was presided over by the High Chairman of the Supreme Conclave, Artifex Crudele, the current Leader of the Free Sorcerers Republic of Lestralla, alternatively called FSRL or the Free Republic. The love for abbreviations under the current political regime is said to have come from the Leader himself, who sought the need to save time on talking and writing. After all, the time you take to say and write long words is better spent on activities that serve the Benefit of the State.
“I am afraid not, officer. I am as confused as you are.” Dolor could not get the sensation of feeling the sheathe lining of leather right before Mons’ belly tore open a deep gash, like an overripe pumpkin. What could it have been? He felt it so vividly as if he was touching it with his finger or another part of his body. He could feel the dark narrowness of the leather-lined space he was in. “It was just like being inside a sheathe or a scabbard,” Dolor thought. “No… it couldn’t be…the dagger? But that would be impossible. I am manaless, and both my parents were. I couldn’t possibly have mana to manipulate the magicarm like that.” He quickly looked at the wooden box where his belongings, including the belt with the dagger, were stashed by Mons and covered by Dolor’s long coat. Dolor noticed a clean surgical incision-shaped hole in the back of the coat covering his belongings.
“You know what, Dolor, I am being told by Central Management that the Healer squad is almost here, and we already have wasted way too much time and energy here. So as much as I would like to stay and chat, I think it’s high time we finished this charade. Tell your invisible friend that your body will be available for pickup from that ditch Mons dug up between four and five business days after we run some tests,” as Schmall finished his monologue, he once again scanned all of his surroundings and fired a Purple Magic Bolt toward Dolor.
Dolor saw the violet-colored crackling lightning bolt head toward him in slow motion. He looked past it to see Schmal holding his dying partner and smiling sadistically in anticipation of the spell’s impact on Dolor’s head. Dolor blinked, and the purple electric light he could feel on his face dissipated instantly to reveal a red mist of blood spraying forth from Schmal’s throat. “The spell stops and disappears completely if the mage is killed mid-cast,” Dolor suddenly remembered his military training and the rule taught to all magekind and manaless recruits, were they unlucky enough to face enemy sorcerers on the battlefield. The assassin’s dagger, lodged firmly in the elf’s throat, emitted a steady glow of Amber magic stretching from its handle and connecting with Dolor’s tied hands. Dolor could feel how the dagger became part of his body and suddenly just appeared in Schmal’s neck with no apparent trajectory of flight. His frozen fingers felt the elf’s vocal cords snap under the tension from the blade, like overturned nylon guitar strings.
Dolor’s mind raced—how was this happening? He had no mana, no training. The dagger felt alive as if it was his body part that he could control from a distance. The connection felt impossible, yet here he was, with SSB elf magent now bleeding profusely from a deep slicing would, the likes of which a butcher uses on slaughtered cattle.
The elf, with his eyes full of shock, stopped casting Stasis on his partner and attempted to recast it on his bleeding neck, but the dagger’s magic impact blew his arteries to bits. “Impossible…this is Red...no...Amber magic…how can he use it if he is manaless...how can he use it at all,” Schmal was slowly drifting into the darkness as he noticed Mons barely breathing and looking at Schmal with sorrowful eyes, as the elf was slowly bleeding to death. With his last ounce of effort, Schmal turned to Mons and whispered in a barely audible raspy voice “This was not…in…the notes, huh?” Schmall cracked a faint smile as his open eyes froze and met the equally lifeless and glassy look of his partner.