A Crumble of Walls (The Kin of Kings Book 4) (6 page)

Cleve raised an eyebrow. “What do you need to know about them?”

“I’m trying to figure out why there’s a second group of Elves here fighting with Ulric and not with Fatholl.”

Peter locked swords with the female Krepp. She grinned at him while he struggled to overpower her. Peter grunted as he pushed, sending her back a step. But she appeared to be ready, already drawing back her sword to swipe at Peter’s head. He dodged the blow, just barely.

“Why does it matter?” Cleve asked.

“I’m going to see Fatholl soon. Maybe he wants something more from those Elves than whatever he wants from me.”

Cleve’s brow furrowed, his gaze never leaving the bout. “I don’t understand.”

He’s not listening.

Now that the Krepp had earned Peter’s respect, they were circling each other. It seemed the best chance to get an answer out of Cleve, so Basen got straight to the point.

“Have you heard anything about an Elf named Yeso or a group of Elves going against Fatholl?”

“The Elves cast Fatholl out for practicing psyche. They don’t allow it.”

“Which Elves don’t? Obviously not the ones who attacked us last night.”

Sneary stepped into the circle and ordered, “Stop. It’s time for battle training to begin.” He put up his hands when everyone griped. “But we’re starting the day with two on two combat,” he continued. “Get on your dueling tunics!”

The warriors’ groans changed to a quick round of celebration as they laughed and clapped. As the Krepps realized what was about to happen, they joined in.

CHAPTER FIVE

All these men were Basen’s size or larger, their collective cheering deep yet harmonious with each other.
These are the Group One warriors
, he realized.
The Academy’s best swordsmen, possibly the best of our entire army.
The thought made Basen realized that everyone left to stand against Tauwin was within the school’s walls.

Basen wondered whether he would’ve been placed among these warriors if he’d tested as one instead of a mage on that fateful recruitment day.
Probably not.
He’d been the best swordsmen his age in Tenred, but after watching Cleve and Peter, Basen understood the warriors here were in a different class.

He noticed Nebre standing at the far end of the Krepps, almost within the human side of the circle. Without his human clothing, he was no longer easily recognizable until he opened his mouth. His white teeth gave him away as he seemed to be translating Sneary’s message to the other Krepps.

Suddenly the creatures made fists and hissed with wicked grins, a clear sign of excitement. However, a few argued with Nebre, who continued to point toward the pile of thick leather tunics.

Basen was thankful when Sneary selected two men other than Cleve for the first fight. Rickik chose two Krepps to face the men.

“Cleve, which Elves don’t allow psyche?” Basen asked as the chaotic bout began.

“All Elves in Greenedge. For centuries, they’ve lived in a territory called Meritar and have exiled anyone caught using or teaching psyche. Fatholl rebelled because he wanted to use psyche to…” His voice trailed off as the fight drew his attention.

The two warriors announced what their opponents were doing, as if wanting to turn the practice battle into a show. But it was much more than that, Basen soon realized, as one of the men called out “rotating” and came around the Krepp, who turned his bare back toward the warrior’s partner. The other warrior took advantage with a stab that drew a screech from the creature.

“Point!” Sneary said. But the Krepp who hadn’t taken the hit continued to chase after the man he’d been targeting.

“Stop,” Sneary ordered as the human quickly backed away from him. “The point has been claimed. Nebre, tell him!”

Nebre translated, but Rickik interrupted his son to complain to Sneary. “My Krepp no lose, only other Krepp. He fight two humans. No stop.”

“When any of your Krepps are struck, the fight is over,” Sneary explained.

“Why?” Rickik spat on the grass. “Coward humans, coward rules.”

“At the Academy, we discourage our warriors from claiming victory if they let their allies die. The point of the exercise is to learn to fight together, not to sacrifice each other. Do you understand?”

With his scaly forehead crinkled in confusion, Rickik turned to Nebre, who translated. Before he could finish, Sneary told Nebre, “And explain to Rickik that just because his Krepps are standing near each other while fighting doesn’t mean they’re fighting together.”

While Sneary continued the lesson for Rickik, Basen resumed his prodding. “Cleve, what did Fatholl do with psyche that got him exiled?”

“Greenedge had a dismal future. In a few words, Fatholl made the continent safe again. He wanted the Elves’ help but had to force the humans to help him instead.” Cleve finally looked at Basen. “He murdered. He killed kings and displaced thousands of men, women, and children. He’ll do anything if he believes it will help the world in the end.”

“The world, or just the Elves?”

Cleve thought about that for a while. The Krepp who’d been stabbed in the back put on a tunic before the next fight. Many of the Krepps watching did the same.
It won’t be long before all of them realize there is no pride in unnecessary injury.

The fight for the second point was much like the first, ending with the same Krepp taking the blunt wooden sword to his back. He screeched and then stomped toward his ally Krepp in an obvious display of anger, but the other Krepps were quick to intervene.

“Fatholl will do what he thinks is right,” Cleve finally answered. “He’ll use you in the same way we’re using these Krepps.”

“He’ll think he’s using me,” Basen corrected. “But I might be able to use him instead.”

Cleve looked worried. “How do you expect to do that?”

Basen didn’t want to admit he was still figuring that out. “Did he mention anything about another group of Elves having been exiled from Meritar?”

“I don’t know anything about another group of Elves.” Cleve returned his attention to the duel. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“You have already.”

Basen lost Cleve again as the next fight began, but it didn’t matter anymore. Basen left Warrior’s Field with a smirk because Cleve had given him the answer he’d hoped to hear. If Fatholl had done so much to change Greenedge yet never mentioned anything to Cleve of another group of Elves, there was a good reason they’d remained apart.

They might not know they’re on the same continent now.

The library was Basen’s next destination. He felt a pang of guilt for not telling Penny why he would be absent, but sometimes it was better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.

He hadn’t been to the library since Nick had given him a tour on his first day at the Academy. Although impressed by its size and the number of books, he figured he’d never have time to indulge himself. He’d just discovered portals, not that he’d known it yet. He’d expected to spend every spare moment training.

It was a good thing he had. Being the only one who could make a portal, besides Sanya, it was his responsibility to keep one open long enough for hundreds of Academy forces to go through in case Terren ordered it.

To Basen’s surprise, the library was busy this morning. However, he soon realized none of these people were students but citizens brought here from Oakshen and the capital. These were the brave ones who hadn’t left, at least not yet. Stanmar would return to recruit more of them, but the destruction of his catapult certainly would hurt his chances of scaring more people into defecting.

Tauwin’s army was not invincible. The sooner everyone in Kyrro learned that, the better the Academy’s chances. There were students who’d left last night, and Basen had seen many more considering it from the way they’d moved closer to the wall as Stanmar left. Given another opportunity to leave, many would take it.

The people at the library appeared to be organizing books, not reading them. As Basen looked around the vast hall, he figured he was the only student here, everyone else occupied in battle training. There was no one at the door to greet him, stop him, or even notice him for that matter. He spent a while looking for the librarian.

Finally, one of the women taking books out of a basket and arranging them on a long shelf looked over and stopped.

“Who sent you?”

Sent me?

“Jack Rose,” he replied. The master chemist was the only teacher Basen knew who might send someone to the library to fetch a book about Elves and Takarys in Greenedge. “He’s looking for more information about Ulric Takary and Yeso the Elf.”

“That man…” She shook both her head at Basen as she approached. “He may be brilliant when it comes to potions, but his sharp mind doesn’t do him much good keeping track of all the happenings of the day. He came last night, half asleep, and took the book. If he lost it—I don’t care if he’s the head chemist around here—I’ll…
ergh
.” Her hands fisted. “It’s the only copy we have! Tell him he has until the end of the day to get it back to me. No pages bent! And tell him to never let it out of his sight and stop forgetting he has it! The dolt.”

“I’ll certainly tell him all those things.”
Sorry Jack, didn’t mean to get you in trouble.

Basen walked out of the library, put his hands on his hips, and sighed. The morning was passing quickly, and he had no idea where Jack would be at this time. He was right to assume the chemist would send him for such a book, but it had nearly cost him his chance of finding out where the book was now. He considered himself lucky that Jack was the kind of man who might borrow a book and then forget, otherwise the librarian would’ve known Basen was lying.

The masters of each class, like Jack, didn’t spend their days instructing, except maybe the master warrior, though Basen had no idea who that was. Perhaps there wasn’t one. Being a master was a silly concept anyway, no matter the class. Although Abith was undoubtedly the closest of anyone Basen had met to being considered a master. Basen feared for Terren’s safety. During the years Basen had spent under Abith’s tutelage, he’d never figured out what to expect from his teacher, and Abith most certainly had a plan to become headmaster.

Basen headed toward Jack’s office. If he wasn’t there, someone might know where he was. All the instructors had a private home, while many also had an office elsewhere. Nick had told Basen this.

Basen swallowed and paused. He missed his roommate. Alex, too. The pain felt slightly different each time he thought of his fallen friends, though it was usually like a small stone caught between his chest and his throat. This was an ache of regret, he’d come to realize, of wishing he had done more, been smarter, caught Sanya before she’d murdered them. But it was also guilt, for he didn’t feel the need to kill Sanya now, unlike Effie. He didn’t see how Sanya’s death would help unless it was necessary to stop her from killing others.

He felt the same anger toward her that Effie did. Sanya’s betrayal made Basen want to wring her neck, but not to the point of death. He would get immense pleasure, however, from hurling her into a prison cell hard enough to slam her into a stone wall before locking the cell door behind her.

More people than usual were bustling around the campus, and the busyness didn’t stop when Basen reached the building that housed the instructors’ offices. As he walked down the hall and looked for Jack’s name next to each open door, Basen had to stay alert to keep from running into people hurrying past him.

It seemed that only chemist instructors had their offices here, because all the citizens rushing around Basen carried something related to their practice. A plant, a beaker, scrolls with edges burned, or books with titles containing phrases that meant nothing to Basen, like “Activated Stages of Energy” and “Beekem’s Uncertainty and Risk.”

It was easy to forget there was so much more to being a chemist than making potions. Most of the worlds’ advances had originated from chemists. Basen was fascinated at how humans could use the energies and elements of nature in new ways. He might’ve requested lessons if he hadn’t been so infatuated with manipulating energy to cast magic. Perhaps it was the word itself. Magic. What little boy didn’t want to cast magic?

Jack’s office didn’t look much different than his kitchen, at least during the time Basen had visited him. It appeared as if a strong wind had scattered anything light enough to be plucked from the table. Basen stood unnoticed in the doorway as Jack practically dove for a scroll underneath the foot of a young man standing in front of his desk.

“Careful where you step! Up. Up.”

“Sorry.” The young man jumped off. Jack feverishly read through the scroll with his mouth open in concentration.

“Oh, this message is a day old. It’s in the wrong place.” He rolled it up and tossed it on the floor to one side of his desk, where many other scrolls apparently had been discarded. The young man handed Jack another scroll like the others.

“From Terren,” the messenger said, then glanced over his shoulder, spotting Basen.

He gave a faint smile, his eyes telling this young man what a mess he thought this room to be. The young man smiled back in the same way, then turned to face Jack again.