The Buried Symbol (The Ruins of Issalia Book 1) (21 page)

Brock took the paper and walked to the table. As he sat, the man flipped a large hourglass filled with black sand, setting it on the corner of his desk. He sat and pulled the top paper from a stack on his desk and began looking it over.

Brock focused his attention on the paper before him, seeing three questions on it. He read the first question.

Two landholders of adjacent properties are in a dispute. A tree located near the property line has grown so that a major branch is now touching the stable of the neighboring property. When the wind blows, the branch scrapes against the stable and damages the roof, causing it to leak during rainfall. The man with the damaged stable demands that the tree be removed to prevent further damage. The other landholder demands that you preserve the tree, which his grandfather had planted many decades prior. The tree is a major source of shade for the man
’
s house, greatly reducing the heat of the summer sun on his dwelling. You are the magistrate, and you must decide on the course of action. Do you require the tree removed to prevent further damage, or do you support the man who owns the tree and relies on it for shade?

He re-read the question, trying to make sense of it. Both men seemed to have valid claims. Removing the tree caused hardship for one man; keeping the tree was bad for the other.

After some thought, he opted to do neither. He responded by suggesting that the damaging limb be shortened to prevent further damage to the building. He would require the man with the damaged building pay for the removal of the branch, while the man who owned the tree would pay for the repair of the roof. Brock felt good about the resolution.

He read the next two questions, finding them both to be situations in with he was a magistrate who must rule in a dispute. Each situation became more sensitive and complex than the prior one. In fact, any resolution appeared to leave one party upset or destitute. It was also unclear how empire law affected each situation. He struggled to find solid resolutions but proceeded anyway. As he finished responding to the last question, Pretencia stood.

“
Time is up. Hand the paper to me.
”

Brock held the paper out, glancing at the hourglass to see the sand in a pile at the bottom. Pretencia snatched the paper and walked away, his eyes scanning it as he read Brock
’
s responses.

When the man sat in his chair, a smirk spread across his face.
“
You are dismissed. I will submit my recommendation, and you will have your answer this afternoon.
”

Brock stood and walked toward the door, pausing before he opened it.
“
I don
’
t know where I
’
m supposed to go next.
”

Pretencia looked up from the paper, letting the smirk drop.
“
Oh yes. You are next required in the Arena. Turn right outside the door and keep going until the hallway ends. It is a large building. I doubt that even you could miss it.
”

“
Um
…
thank you.
”
He slipped out the door.

After pulling the door closed, Brock leaned against it and took a deep breath to calm his nerves. That seemed to go poorly. For some reason, Pretencia hated him before he had even walked into the room. He needed to do better with the others.

CHAPTER 32

The Arena was massive, easily the largest indoor space Brock had ever seen. Standing inside the doorway, he surveyed his surroundings.

A dirt floor was at the center of the building, three stories below where he stood. Ten-foot tall walls surrounded the floor. Those walls stood about a hundred feet apart on the shorter side, with a length that was twice the width.

The building was shaped like a rectangular bowl. Dozens of rows of benches surrounded the room, each a foot lower than the one behind it, making it easy to see the Arena floor over people seated in front of you.

Brock
’
s eyes shifted to the ceiling, trying to understand how the roof was supported in such a large open space. He noted the four large pillars stretching from the stands to the high ceiling. The center glass section of the ceiling mirrored the rectangular shape of the floor below. Sunlight poured through to illuminate the interior of the building.

Pairs of students dressed in white vests sparred on the dirt floor. The clacking sound of wood striking wood echoed off the walls as training weapons and shields collided. The sound grew louder as he descended the stairs. Reaching the bottom of the stands, he took a second set of narrow stairs that led to the Arena floor.

As he stepped onto the dirt floor, a man strolled over to meet him. The man
’
s bald head glistened with sweat, a long bead dripping from his heavy brow and onto his bold nose. A trimmed brown goatee framed his square jaw. The bulging muscles of his bare arms pulled his tan skin tight. He wore a vest like the others, but with purple trim bordering the white cloth. A purple symbol of Issal on the vest matched the rune on his forehead.

The man stopped before him, staring with his thick arms crossed over his massive chest. His eyes scanned Brock from head to toe, measuring him. Somehow, it didn
’
t feel as uncomfortable as when Master Pretencia had performed a similar assessment.

“
You are Mr. Talenz, I presume,
”
the man said.

Brock nodded. The man held out a meaty hand. Brock shook it in response.

“
I
’
m Master Budakis. I
’
ll be evaluating your potential to be a paladin.
”
The man gestured toward a weapon rack filled with wooden training gear.
“
If you
’
re familiar with any of these weapon types, you should take whichever you
’
re most proficient at. If you have no weapons training, I suggest you try a quarterstaff as it seems the best match for your build.
”

Brock certainly had no weapon training. The most he had done is wave a stick around, pretending it was a sword. He stepped over to the rack filled with wooden rods of various lengths.

Budakis followed, grabbing a staff from the rack. He set the butt of his staff on the floor.
“
I suggest you select a staff that
’
s the height of your brow. A longer staff may provide more reach but will be more difficult to manage.
”

Brock chose the shortest staff, seeming to be the suggested length for his height. It wasn
’
t heavy but still felt solid. The thickness of the wood felt good in his hands.

Budakis walked to an unoccupied area of the floor with Brock in tow. The man turned and stood with his feet apart and staff held firmly before him.

Brock was nervous, even scared. He had never done anything like this before.
“
I don
’
t think I
’
m ready for this. I have no training. I
’
ve never used anything but a knife before.
”

“
This isn
’
t about your training.
”
The man smiled.
“
This is about your potential. Now, get ready. Prepare to defend yourself. I
’
ll try not to hurt you too badly.
”

Brock
’
s heart was racing. He held his staff up, mirroring the larger man
’
s stance.

Budakis stepped forward, his staff snapping toward Brock. Brock brought his up to block. A loud clack sounded out.

Budakis smiled.
“
Good. That
’
s it.
”

The man flipped his staff and swept at Brock
’
s legs. He jumped, and the staff passed under him.

Budakis smiled again.
“
Okay. I think you
’
re ready now. Here comes the good stuff.
”

Brock stared at the man
’
s hands, trying to anticipate the next move. His nerves had settled, now replaced by adrenaline. Fear had become focus.

The master paladin snapped his staff at Brock
’
s head. Brock ducked, feeling the air swish against the back of his neck as the rod swept by.

The man swung at his side. With a quick twist and bend of his wrists, Brock blocked the strike.

The man
’
s staff snapped down at his shoulder. Brock twisted away, deftly dodging the blow.

Defending a quick flurry of left-right and up-down strikes had Brock panting. He ducked, he dodged, and he blocked. Focused on defending himself, he didn
’
t even consider striking back.

Another set of strikes backed Brock up. He reset, and Budakis snapped the staff at his head, causing Brock to duck again.

Spinning his body around in a tight rotation, Budakis lowered his staff, sweeping it low. Like the last time, Brock leapt in the air, and the staff passed under him. Budakis brought his staff around, swinging it down at Brock
’
s head while he was still in the air.

In desperation, Brock brought his staff up to block the blow. He yelped in pain when the staff struck his finger. The blow affected his balance, causing him to stumble when he landed. Rolling backward with his momentum, he came to his feet a few strides away. His finger was numb with pain, but he didn
’
t let down his guard.

Budakis smiled again.
“
Good. You can relax now.
”
He shifted his staff to one hand, setting the butt on the ground. He then turned and shouted,
“
What are you slugs looking at? Get back to work!
”

That
’
s when Brock realized everyone had stopped to watch their duel. After the scolding, they quickly resumed their sparring.

He took his hand off the staff, examining his finger. It was red and had already begun to swell. It throbbed with stabs of pain to the rhythm of his racing heartbeat.

“
Sorry about the finger. It
’
s probably broken. It
’
s a common injury with quarterstaff fighting. In fact, it
’
s happened to me numerous times.
”
Budakis stepped over to the weapons rack, replacing the staff he had used.
“
Lucky for you, we anticipated an injury to be likely. That
’
s why your next stop is with the master ecclesiast.
”

CHAPTER 33

The heavy door creaked as it opened, echoing through the empty temple. Brock
’
s eyes were drawn to the rays of colored sunlight pouring through stained glass windows in the domed ceiling.

The room was octagon-shaped, each wall perhaps a hundred feet from the one opposite. Eight columns stretched from the base of the wall up at an angle to support the dome. Similar to the Arena, the floor of the temple sloped down toward the center. Eight sections of benches were arranged in descending rows to face the raised dais in the middle of the room.

On the dais was a glowstone altar, pale blue in the daylight. A figure in a purple cloak stood near the altar, having a quiet discussion with a student.

While descending the slope toward the dais, Brock examined his throbbing finger. Now twice as thick as his thumb, the finger had turned an ugly purple.

Stopping before the dais, he waited patiently. Now that he was close, he realized that the master was a woman. Her dark hair was tied back in a bun. From this angle, he couldn
’
t see her face or the face of the student. He could only hear the murmurs of their muffled conversation.

After a minute, the student turned and descended the back side of the dais to exit out of the far side of the temple. The master turned, smiling when she saw him.

She waved Brock forward.
“
Come on up. Don
’
t be shy.
”

He circled the dais, climbing the four steps to the top.

The master matched his height. She had large brown eyes and olive skin. He guessed that she was perhaps thirty-five years old. She gave him a warm smile.

“
You must be Brock.
”
He nodded in response. She extended her hand.
“
My name is Meryl Varius. I train academy novices in Ecclesiastics. I
’
m pleased to meet you.
”

Brock reached his hand out to shake hers, wincing when she squeezed his broken finger.