Victor awoke with a start. Was I dreaming? He knew it was more than a dream, but he couldn’t wrap his mind around the concept. I have to do something. Rolling out of his bedroll, Victor went across the camp to where Nim sat on watch.
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Victor sat next to Nim, trying to figure out how to phrase what he was about to say. Nim sat and silently stared out at the land below. The sun was starting to light the sky, but it hadn’t yet crested the horizon. Victor knew that Nim would give him time to think about what he wanted to say. Think first, speak second, Nim had told him what seemed like a long time ago.
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</a> “No, I don’t. I have heard of this before. It’s not common, but every once in a while, someone strong in the blood can develop a bond with a person. When they are in distress, it can trigger the bond, allowing them to communicate on a different plane of thought.” Nim was deep in thought, considering what to do next.
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</a> Zander stood at the right side of the giant table, which was also a map. He looked up from the map and smiled, but his grin quickly slid from his face when he saw how tired Victor looked. Stewart Cantel stood as he had the last time, with his back towards the door, examining the map that showed all of the intel they had gathered thus far. Victor had heard stories about Stewart Cantel over the last two weeks from Nim’s squad. According to them, there were very good reasons that this small man was High Commander of the Knights.
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“I have no doubt of that. It is a little amazing how you seem to know a deck so well, though, but that is beside the point. What have you been doing to the boy?”
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</a> Zander, Tetriarch of the Sorcerers, and Stewart Cantel, High Commander of the Knights of the Protectorate, both turned their heads back towards Victor. He didn’t like the looks they were giving him. He knew that as military men, they would both think first of how they could use that ability to some greater purpose. The next thing he knew, Zander would be trying to study him like a bug under a looking glass. The next question that Stewart Cantel asked surprised Victor.
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</a> “It’s the rise where Undrik Raffalion fought off two dracair patrols alone before succumbing to his wounds. When they found the bodies, there were other dracair tracks that had come along afterwards, but they hadn’t disturbed the ground. If there is one thing the Dracair respect, it is strength, and that day, Undrik showed his strength with four warriors and two dreadnaughts headless on or near the rise. The Protectorate buried him under that rise, even though it was in dracair territory.”
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</a> Victor spent most of that day sharpening his daggers and pacing. He had found two dagger belts in the room where Nim had put his cache of equipment they had procured from the Assassins’ Guild. Each belt had ten sheaths that held throwing daggers. It had taken some modification, but Bartholomew had finally gotten them so that they would fit Victor efficiently. The next thing he had found that was of interest was a belt buckle that hid four metal stars. When he had asked Bartholomew about them, the man had been very impressed with their quality. He had then continued into a dissertation on how they were used properly. It seemed that it was much the same as throwing a knife, with a few modifications on the flick. His ensemble had been completed by the two forearm sheaths, two boot sheaths, and the sheath for the back of his neck. At his side, he wore the dagger that Shaylyn had given him the morning before she had disappeared.
</a> When the evening was wearing to an end, Victor had gone to practice while there was still good light. Going back to the yard where Nim, Ashur, Shawnrik, and himself had spent so many hours since the beginning of the year had made him feel a bit nostalgic. The yard had been set aside for training, and as he rounded the corner, he realized it was once again being used for that purpose as the familiar ring of metal on metal met his ears.
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All of it had felt like one smooth motion that Victor had never accomplished before that time, but his thoughts on the matter only lasted long enough to hear the thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk, of his daggers hitting their marks perfectly. Not finished, he had released the latch of his belt buckle and removed the stars hidden within and smoothly flicked them at another target as Bartholomew had taught him to do. Earlier, it had been a clumsy motion, but now they left his hands as if he had done it a thousand times before.
Hold on Shawnrik; we are coming.
Hold on Shawnrik; we are almost there.
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