Arthurian Cultivation

Smoke swept over me in a wave. As the wall of grey consumed me, I feinted a dodge right, rocking back to stand exactly where I started. I felt the little blood ball slam through the air on my left, where the average fighter would’ve been. Astor was a cunning opponent; dodging him wouldn’t be as easy as Ulfast, and surviving that ugly bastard had been no walk in the park.

“A smoke cultivator, how quaint. I knew another one, all he could do was hide, run, and die,” the voice taunted, sending a shiver up my spine. For a brief second, I wondered if he somehow knew who I was, but then I heard a snarl from Sephy. I couldn’t see her, only feel the burst of movement through the smoke, and hear the clash of steel on steel. The insult was meant for her.

Gathering myself, I focused on my retreat, pulling on the now abundant smoke and ash. From my position, four columns of smoke split apart, each heading in different directions. A simple deception, but one I hoped would buy me the time to get some distance.

“Have you picked up another wounded bird?” The man laughed. It was disgustingly chummy, the kind of hearty baritone that slapped you on the back and offered you a pint. It didn’t match the vile words he spewed. “Maybe this one you’ll get to see fly before we put it in the ground.”

I could hear the tempo of their fight increase. Despite the thickness of my shroud of smoke, I could see his burning blade dancing as they fought. A hazy red and orange line that drew shapes in the air, moving faster and faster, occasionally letting out crescent blasts of flame. Two of the blasts of flame carved into my decoys, the explosion of intense heat and foreign glamour blasting apart my technique.

I couldn’t use my levity technique or he’d sense me, so I just focused on running across the uneven, debris-strewn ground.

A direct hit from any of those would spell my end. It pained me to retreat, but I had to put space between us. A task easier said than done—we were no more than a minute into the conflict and already fire was spreading. The drifts of leaves and the dead wood from the wounded trees were perfect fuel for the flames.

“Not sure why you’re picking up more wounded birds. Your Silver Lion of yours is looking a bit tarnished. That’s to be expected, though; he was already as weak as a cub with that river wyrm’s poison. Now he’s got Clove’s poison as well, leaving him no more than a mewling kitten.” That pulled me up short. I didn’t like the prince, but no one should die to a poison cultivator. It was a grim way to go. We had to finish this quickly and help. I had some decent antidotes mixed in with my gifts from Miss Peaches.

Perhaps he sensed my hesitation, or my luck just ran out. Astor attacked.

I didn’t see any burst of light from his blade. No, this was a devious strike meant to end me. It was only thanks to my fine control of my smoke that I felt the invisible heat wave crossing the battlefield. The intense heat distorting the air was my only warning. With a burst of levity straining my hearth, I launched myself over a waist-high tree root.

I hadn’t even hit the ground when the strike hit. My cloak of smoke was shredded, and even with the root in the way, the heat licked my back, causing me to swear and curse.

“Found you, little bird!” he chuckled, as if it was all some banter over dinner. I sucked in a breath.

In that moment, I felt the weight of those silver eyes pressing down on me, like they were waiting for my death. The attention eased a little as I struggled to my knees, but it remained a constant weight on my spiritual senses. What they wanted, I didn't know, but it would have to wait.

As my scalded nerves screamed, I knew I was trapped. The part of the attack not absorbed by the root had ignited the leaves and wood behind me, halting my retreat. Moving out from behind the root was not an option.

Astor was some forty paces from me, Sephy was likewise distant, the three of us forming a triangle. Her positioning was off, and it was with a sinking feeling I realised she was positioned between Astor and my last remaining smoke decoy. A tactical error on my part—I was too used to working with Bors, who always knew where I was.

Peering over the now blackened and charred root, my back screaming in pain, I could see him gather a sphere of blood, moving back so he could see around my cover. His eyes flicked between Sephy and me. He was baiting her. I didn’t know what he planned, but it was nothing good.

Through the pain, I scrambled for a solution. What did I have? I had a lute, thankfully unharmed by the flames. It could become a sword, but neither tool would help me here. My now scorched clothes could shift into armour, which might help a bit against the heat, but would make it even harder to dodge. I had some potions and salves, and while my back could really do with that kind of attention, it wouldn’t help here. I had a bow and arrow, which had zero chance of hurting anyone here. I had my smoke, but the flames were pushing it away. I could do nothing. I couldn’t do anything!

Astor, with a walnut-sized sphere of steaming blood hanging between the fingers of his left hand, edged around the outside of my root. In a couple of steps, he’d be able to see me and launch the attack. I saw Sephy take a tentative step, and with it that grimace of a smile Astor wore twitched, becoming more genuine. My senses screamed danger. I wouldn’t—no, I couldn’t let Sephy get hurt on my account.

I refused to get anyone killed saving me. I refused to let the Harkleys win.

Like I’d told Maeve after I dragged her out of that lake, I defined what it was to win. Some said the key to winning was a life well lived. Bullshit! I’d decided long ago that winning was a death well spent, ruining as many of their plans as I could on the way out.

I felt something solidify in me. My intent was thrilled with my conviction. The weight of the silver eyes lessened as I found my control again, my mind set. I grabbed every wisp of smoke I could reach and wrenched a tidal wave of smoke down across both Astor and myself. His power was such that I barely got a split second of his outline in my smoke, a pulse of heat from his blade disturbing the air and thinning out the smoke around him. He was too late.

In that same moment, I’d drawn my bow and an arrow from my ring. My back bellowed its complaints as my muscles shifted and contracted. I let fly, the arrow carving its path through my smoke, hidden from Astor. It crossed the distance between us and carved right past the mad cultivator, right through that delicately balanced technique of boiling blood.

If there’s one bad thing about smoke, it’s that I often don’t get to see my victories. Still, I could hear the sudden yelp and a string of curses.

“You miserable little thing, I’m going to roast you on a spit for that.” His voice retreated, even as he called out more threats. I heard Sephy pacing towards me. I let my smoke thin and found Sephy standing beside me, both of us looking at Astor.

“A lucky strike won’t change the fact you’re just a pathetic, broken thing—a sick bird that doesn't know it's already dead.” The knight’s tone had finally changed. He was spitting every word. While his complexion was already red from his enhancement technique, the skin on his fingers where the blood had been was now a mottled mix of purple and pink.

It was either the clarity from the pain, my connection with my still-forming intent, or bits of both, but my mind was moving faster. I wasn’t going to leave Sephy dancing around trying to protect random tufts of smoke again. With a mental push, my bardic outfit shifted into armour. The metal was all within my aura, an extension of my body, which normally meant that any other cultivator couldn’t even sense it. Arthur’s act of trust in letting Sephy access his blood to reverse the tracking had been a shock, but it provided a solution to my current problem.

Granting access to anything in your aura was difficult; your mind didn't like giving up the safety and control. If I lowered the aura completely, my armour would be easier to heat up, easier to damage, becoming no different than mortal steel. Selective access required intimate knowledge of the other cultivator's power. For me, all it took was a gentle push.

She shifted for a moment, not taking her eyes off Astor. Still, it might have been my imagination, but her stance seemed to settle. She brought her shield closer, and I could see it was battered and dented in places, parts glowing with heat. I nocked an arrow, preparing to assist in any way I could.

"Enough of this. Waltz, I need this one’s blood to end this!" Both Sephy and I flinched, turning our attention to the other combatants. Upstream, surrounded by even more fire than we were, the others battled. It was just our luck that Waltz was much closer to us than Bors at that moment.

The other Divine Cultivator glanced at us, and then the stone menhir he rode shifted, charging toward us. I heard Bors roar, offended at being ignored, sending crystals at the Inquisitor.

"Hold him off," came the clipped shout from the Inquisitor. Astor nodded and launched a slash of flame at Bors as our enemies shifted.

As Waltz passed through the burning forest, the flames channelled into the stone, the leading edge of which began to glow with a dark, murky orange, like molten lava. I shuddered. This battle needed to end quickly; our opponents were only getting stronger.

I needed to get off the ground, or I'd have no chance of avoiding him when he got close. He could just open the ground and swallow me whole. I began to run up the root, trying to get away from the earth, when my momentum was suddenly arrested as my armour locked up. For the second time that day, I watched as a ball of overheated liquid passed right by me.

I nodded in appreciation to Sephy. She’d used her newfound control of my armour to arrest my movement. I’d got lucky; the Inquisitor’s range had surprised me. He glared at us for wasting his shot but then shifted, speeding up to get closer and finish us personally. I tried to scramble up the root but was still held firm by her power. Confused, I turned to look at her.

Sephy looked at me. Despite everything, a small smile broke across her lips. “Remember that time when Lord Winslet made a crack about me gaining more blood powers at my ‘time of the month’?”

“Just before you kicked him over the hedge maze?”

“Try and land better than he did.” Glamour gathered around me, and I was yanked skyward, every single piece of my armour moving in concert, launching me towards the thickest roots, keeping me far out of the reach of my foes. As I sailed through the air, I gathered as much smoke and ash as I could. The air was full of it, and it would help hide me.

Sephy relaxed her control of my armour just in time for me to grab onto one of the roots. I slid over the surface, almost falling off before I caught myself. I’d landed near the trunk of the tree that had been so heavily pruned by Ursul’s awakening. Its broken branches and dead leaves littered our battlefield.

From this vantage point, I turned to take stock. I didn’t like what I saw.

Fire was everywhere. The smoke was a haze that blew over the river. Even with my skills, I couldn’t see what was going on over there, but the fact that Gawain hadn’t returned said they were having at least as much trouble as we were.

Bors and Sephy were closing in on Waltz. The earth cultivator was cursing up a storm; it seemed Astor had left to do battle with both Knights. Even with his high mobility and the abundance of flame, he was weathering their attacks. I cast around for Astor but couldn’t find him in the fight, which worried me. The silver eyes were still watching, but they were now just a background itch on my senses.

Ignoring what I couldn’t control, I hunted for Astor. A shift in the smoke located him after a few moments of work. He was heading towards the water. For a moment, I was baffled. Confused, I cleared a tunnel to take a look, see if there was something I was missing.

What I saw opened a pit in my stomach. The water was still churning with warring beasts, but its hue had shifted—the water was scarlet, the froth crimson with blood.

Sephy and Bors were nowhere near him. In mere moments, he’d have access to a supply of blood enough to drown us. What could I do?

Nothing. Not as I was right now. I rejected that thought, opening my mind, thinking on my Intent, reminding myself what I was willing to sacrifice. With that on the table, there had to be something!

I felt the half-formed Intent pulse in my head. Phrases filtered through my mind, none quite right. I’d rather die than let them win. In death, I’d bring ruin to their plans. A death well spent. All were puzzle pieces close enough to trick me until I tried to fit them in place. What was missing? Bors said it had to be ‘poetic,’ and it was missing the other word I’d resonated with: discord.

I felt my fingers on my lute, absentmindedly plucking it to calm myself. As I played the first licks of a simple tune, something bubbled up. Under my fingers, the strings screeched in complaint as my hand tensed. The words crystallised in my mind, becoming something more.

In death, I shall sow discord.

The statement fit. I saw a future, cutting my throat open, rising as a vengeful Iron Phoenix. Standing with the others in black harlequin armour, my blade coated in death glamour, slicing through his gouts of blood. A tide of ash drowning the lava Inquisitor. Cutting them down without mercy, standing victorious over their corpses.

My hearth roared in approval. The death gift was hungry for this Intent. There was power here, more than I’d ever dreamed of. Yet, as I felt it trying to slot into place, I yanked it away. I was a Bard, not a death knight. If I let this happen, I’d lose control over my life, my Intent bound to revenge. My cultivation fought me, my hearth incomplete, and here I dangled the last piece before it.

The Intent solved this problem, but it wasn’t me. It was an Intent forced on me by a Harkley. If I accepted it, they’d win. Regus, the man I was, who sought every tool to bring down his tormentors, would have embraced this Intent.

But I decided what winning looked like, and it didn’t look like this.

I was Taliesin. My first act in this new life was to dance. I had found a path, one of music, jokes, and friends. I wasn’t this.

Besides, I had what I needed from my introspection. My lute was in my hands. Looking out, I saw Astor approaching the water. I let my fingers strum a familiar tune. A beautiful song.

“Arise, with sword and armour,

Arise, as the war drums pound,

Arise, for hearth and home.

Arise, as the battle cries sound.”

I poured death glamour from my hearth into the lute. My vision of the future had reminded me of something I’d half forgotten—a way to stop Astor. My power churned in the belly of the lute, but I didn’t seek to spread emotion. I just gathered power.

“War is come, battle is to be met,

Draw swords, let feet pound.”

I’d skipped a verse, but this one felt more appropriate. Wrapped in smoke, I couldn’t see the fight, but my senses felt Astor pause in confusion. He was right by the water. His hands reached out. I grinned and willed my cloak to wrap around me.

“Let banners fly, follow the drum’s sound.

Blood is spilt, the earth made wet.”

My fingers slammed on the strings, letting discord and death ring out. A burst of death glamour howled from my lute, funneled in a billowing cloud by the open mouth of the instrument. What little glamour clawed at me, my cloak protected me from, but I could feel its chilling touch.

Just like before, Astor was not my target. His power was beyond me, and while my attack would’ve dried him out and clawed away at his vitality, it would have been survivable. The same went for most of the monsters in the water; any Bronze bold enough to fight for the power was now dead, their blood dirtying the water.

Which was perfect, as it made for a big target. The wave of death glamour crashed into the water, rendering every drop of blood in the river nothing more than red paint for cultivation purposes. Living blood was essential.

Through the shroud that hid me, I heard Astor bellow in fury. It really was a beautiful sound