Interlude 1:
“The boy cannot read?”
Fransoir Monet let the words spill from him with an almost incredulous tone, staring at the girl and boy that were, nominally, here to take the entry level mage exam.
Well, the boy was. The girl was already a certified mage.
“I understand,” the girl said with a bow that almost seemed contrite. “He’s foreign, and hasn’t learned the language yet. But he is a mage. I’ve already seen several of his spells.”
Fransoir frowned; magic or not, who’d ever heard of a certified mage that couldn’t read? Reading was fundamental to magic of all forms. Whatever hedge-spells the boy could produce likely weren’t anything more than the simplest of folk spells or mana manipulation.
Still, the Graf had asked him to oversee the boy’s exam, and he had helped with the attack, if rumors were to be believed.
He glanced at the young man. The roughspun clothes that Fransoir had seen him with just days ago had been replaced with linen trousers and shirts made of softer fabrics. The hide shoes were similarly gone, now replaced with sturdy boots of fine make.
But even so, fresh clothes provided by the Graf or not - for both him and his father as a reward - he was still unmistakably… rural. A country bumpkin through and through.
He doubted this would go anywhere, but a fair exam he would give nonetheless.
“Very well,” he sighed. “I suppose, given his lack of literacy, we will forgo the written portion of the exam,” he groused. “We shall instead move straight on to practical applications.”
“Thank you,” the girl - Fern - answered, before gesturing to the young man to follow.
He turned away, marching out of the lecture hall, and down to exit the palace’s eastern wing to reach the gardens. Some training dummies had been placed in advance. Eight of them, to be precise.
Several of the Graf’s servants and staff bowed as they walked past, muttering polite greetings before continuing on with their duties.
“Very well,” he sighed as they reached the open grounds and its’ small cadre of dummies. “In order to qualify as an entry level fifth class mage, the aspirant must show capability of utilizing at least three spells with varying effects: combat, defense, or utility of some sort.”
“Of course,” Fern nodded, before turning to the boy. “Do you understand?”
The Boy nodded back, smiling. “I understand.”
His accent was present, the words sounding thick, but at least he seemed fluent.
“Alright then.” Fransoir cleared his throat. “Which of the three categories would you like to perform first?”
“Ahh- e- D-defense!” The boy nodded. “Protect!”
Fair enough. The man conjured his staff, aiming it at the boy.
He expected the boy to conjure his own staff- but he didn’t. He just stood there.
Staves were not strictly speaking necessary for magic, but they did help as a foci, and certainly with aim and direction, but that was usually something only experienced mages did. The fact that the boy was just standing there, staring at him…
It was plain as day that this wasn't going to go well.
He let out a sigh through his nostrils, and then explained. “I will strike at you with ordinary offensive magic. It will not harm you, but it will hurt. We begin… now!”
The blast of white magic shot forward and the boy’s stance lowered, but he didn’t conjure a defensive barrier; Fransoir was certain the boy was about to eat a faceful of magic when he suddenly spoke.
“Kráku lið!”
‘What is he-’
A storm of ethereal crows came out of nowhere, wings flapping and beaks cawing, amidst a howling wind. The ghostly avians interposed themselves between the blast of magic and the boy, almost physically ripping the spell and its mana fabric apart, letting nothing but a wispy line brush across the boy’s red hair to show for the instructor's efforts.
Fransoir was caught completely flat footed by the display, but to his credit, he only stared in bewilderment for but a moment.
“What was that!?” He demanded.
The boy blinked at him. “Defense.”
“I- that…”
“Atreus’ homeland never encountered Quall-” Fern explained. “Thus- they never encountered Zoltraak. It's not unreasonable that they’d have an entirely different form of Defensive magic to our own.”
Fransoir bit down on his words. The girl had a point. “Yes… that does make sense. It's just- such a commonplace spell today that I forget its origins.” He blew out a breath through his nose as he pinched it, before looking back up and fixing the pair with a stern look.
“As such, it would behoove him greatly to expand his repertoire to include the defensive barriers that are proven to defend against it as soon as possible,” he said pointedly.
Fern, to her credit, nodded without protest. “I understand.”
The instructor sighed once more. “That being said- All one needs to pass is to defend against a spell, and he has done so, however unconventionally. He passes this portion of the mage exam.”
The boy grinned, happy as can be, then he clapped his hands once. “Ok! Next!”
In spite of himself, Fransoir was indeed somewhat interested now: magic from a whole new land- the novelty alone was piquing the academic in him, if nothing else.
The boy took a breath; Fransoir could feel the strange flow of Mana around him. “Dýr atrás!”
Again appearing from nowhere, a spectral stag of all things emerged from thin air. The phantom beast calmly walked forward, and with each step, the grass grew and flowers bloomed. The instructor would have drawn closer to better examine what was happening were it not for the almost physical force the beast was emanating. It was all he could do to stand his ground and resist being pushed back.
Then, just as when it appeared, it vanished into nothing, leaving an overgrown patch of grass and flowers along the trail of its ghostly footsteps.
With the force gone, Fransoir leaned down to finally examine the plants. “I see. A… unique utility spell. I can see its potential applications.” Straightening, he nodded at the boy. “You pass this portion.”
Again, the boy grinned, tossing a happy look Fern’s way. She nodded back, smiling and offering a polite little clap at the declaration.
“Now. Combat,” he stated.
Atreus grinned.
“Úlfr Hlaup!”
Fransoir was suddenly surrounded by snarling, lightning-wreathed wolves…
The beasts snapped their jaws and barked. He moved to form a barrier as they lunged.
Fangs and claws bit down, and broke right through-
—
Kratos:
“Hey uhhh… are we sure he knows this is just friendly practice?”
“You’re fine.”
“That’d be a lot more reassuring if you would even look this way when you say it.”
“You’re perfectly safe.”
“Then why do I feel very unsafe!?”
“I think yer frightenin the boy, brother,” Mimir muttered
“He frightens easily.”
“You could try smilin… no no. Nevermind. That’d make a draugr shite their pants.”
Kratos grunted, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he watched the young man.
For all of his whimpering and clear lack of confidence, Stark’s form was solid; holding his axe in a way that the butt of the weapon could be used for a quick jab to keep distance, and the head of the axe could strike from on high with tremendous force.
Force that a human -and Stark was human- shouldn’t be capable of.
The boy grimaced, looking for all the world like he’d prefer to be absolutely anywhere in the world that was not directly beneath Kratos’ gaze.
He wouldn’t make the first move.
So Kratos did it for him.
With a quick, albeit lazy toss, the Leviathan axe flew through the air, swallowing the half dozen paces between the two of them in an eye blink. He’d thrown it in a way that the haft of the axe would be the thing to hit the boy’s head, but he hadn’t needed to be so cautious. Blinding speed or not, Stark still reacted, twisting with a display of speed of his own before the pommel of his long axe cracked against the Leviathan, sending the flying axe spinning aside before he rushed Kratos.
The God of War recalled the flying blade, even as his shield unfolded across his forearm, its bronze surface crashing against the heavy axe blade that looked to come down across his shoulder.
The force of it elicited a grunt from Kratos, his shield threatening to smack his own face before he quickly compensated for the youth’s surprising strength. He saw the dismay flicker across Stark’s eyes, equally surprised that, for all his power, the Greek God didn’t even budge. Then, instincts took over and he whirled around, using the hook-like curve at the bottom edge of his long axe to catch the returning Leviathan before it could reach Kratos’ hand.
The boy slammed the ice frosted magical weapon into the dirt at their feet, pinning it there with his own axe head before he leapt up, using the haft of his long axe as a pole vault to try and mule kick the Spartan in the face.
The grunt Kratos gave as he reached up and caught both feet, one with hand, one with forearm before they could strike him in the face, was one of grudging admiration, not that the boy could tell. Then the God of War bodily threw him aside, sending him spinning through the air with a startled yelp before he hit the ground in a rolling tumble. Stark sprang to his feet just as Kratos recalled the axe back into his hand from its place at the God’s feet.
“Dang it,” he heard Stark mutter as he stood up, dusting himself off. “Is he really this far outa my league? Nothing I do is even phasing him!”
“Not true,” the small one said in response. “I think you impressed him with that kick.”
“More like he was laughing at my volunteering for his version of a flying spell.” Again the boy brought his axe up, taking a stance.
At least he wasn’t hesitating anymore.
The boy shifted his weight carefully, seemingly gauging how to approach the fellow axe wielder, before shifting his stance, the head of his long axe now held low.
Legs tensed, shoulders tightened-
And Stark exploded forward, his speed blindingly fast, and when his axe blade swung, he swung from earth to sky.
Kratos tried to interpose his shield, but again, the hook-like bill at the underside of the edge grasped the shield and Stark’s brute strength, combined with surprise and leverage heaved open Kratos’ guard.
The God of War was open for a strike, but then, he caught something: a flaw, not hesitation, but something perhaps worse; a blindspot in the boy’s fighting.
Kratos didn’t have that issue.
By the time the boy readjusted his weapon to seize the opening, it was too late.
The God of War’s foot came up, and the kick he smashed into Stark’s stomach and chest sent the youth crashing backwards with a breathless cough, hitting the ground with a wheeze that spoke of trying to get the air back in his lungs.
But still, to his credit, his grip on his own weapon hadn’t wavered, the long axe still held firmly in his grasp.
“Mimir,” he called to the Head who was watching while resting on Frieren’s lap, his head and horns serving as a place to rest the spine of the book she was reading.
“Aye, brother?”
“You’ve learned their language.”
“A few words in the last week or so, aye,” the head stated modestly. Kratos was aware that he’d been devouring knowledge of the language alongside Atreus. The ‘smartest man alive’ wished to converse and learn all there was to know about this ‘new world’.
“Remind him the axe isn’t his only weapon.”
“Hmm. Stark.”
Grunting as he sat up, the red headed boy coughed as he rubbed at his chest. “Yeah?” His voice was breathy and strained.
“Ahh… Hmmm.” Mimir’s lips pursed, visibly trying to think of the words. “Axe, more than one tool.”
The meaning evidently didn’t come across. “Huh?”
Mimmir’s face scrunched up.
“Need some help?”
“Aye; Thank ye Miss Frieren.”
The pale elf placed her hand atop Mimir’s head, closing her eyes for a brief moment of concentration.
“I see,” she declared, then nodded before opening her eyes again and looking towards Stark. ”Mr. Kratos is asking to remind you the axe isn’t your only weapon.”
Stark blinked, then looked down at the axe still in his hand. “Huh?”
“Arms lad. Leg,” Mimir chimed in.
Stark’s eyes widened, mouth opening and then closing before he seemingly paused, considering.
“I think what they’re trying to say-” Frieren cut in “Is that moment when you had him open. You took a second to adjust your weapon to swing with it again, giving him time to kick you. Rather than striking immediately.”
“You mean with my fist?” Stark seemed to take a moment to think. “I guess that’s true. It’s not my first instinct.”
Not for the first time since coming here, Kratos wished he could understand what was being said. Were punches and kicks really so revolutionary a concept in these lands?
“Still… not sure how much good my fist will do against Monsters.”
“Not always Monster,” Mimir answered the boy’s muttering,
Frieren nodded. “That’s true, even Demons are close to human proportions for the most part. It’s not impossible for that avenue to be useful in certain circumstances.”
“Hi!”
The sudden exclamation caught all of their attentions, making them turn to the source.
“Oh! Miss Monica!” Stark called, smiling at the guardswoman from where he sat.
The woman, that Kratos assumed now doubled as their guide/escort carried a basket in her hand; it seemed heavy by how she was moving.
“Good morning,” Frieren nodded, her book returning to its place atop Mimir’s head and horns.
The guardswoman held up her basket, smiling brightly. “I’ve brought goodies from the market!”
Stark almost visibly perked up. If he were a hound, his ears would be straight and his tail would be wagging. “Sweets?”
“Fruits! Oh, is Atreus still at the test?”
“Yes.” It was Mimir who answered, looking quite proud of himself. “Laddie will win trial, Back when Sun is past err… noon?”
Monica made a delighted sound. “Wow, you guys are really picking up the language fast.”
“I think their tutor is afraid Mr. Kratos is gonna eat him if he doesn’t do a good job.”
The woman giggled, Mimir barked out a laugh, and Stark looked guilty and sheepish as Kratos tossed him a look. He didn’t understand what had been said, but he did recognize his name, and the laughter said a joke had been made, likely at his expense.
“Lad better than Mimir. But we learn.”
The woman nodded. “Well, like I said, I brought some goodies.” She held up the basket. “Fruits! With you guys being from a land so far away, I figured there were some fruits you’d never tasted before.”
The woman hummed a happy tune as she marched over, and then began pulling free a collection of what Kratos could only assume to be produce.
Some were simple enough: cherries and blue berries he recognized, grapes as well of course. But there were others he didn’t. A large green one, another that was almost pale yellow. Some large, bright red ones with a stem.
“Mimir?” He demanded.
“She’s brought us fruits to try, brother. I must say, some of them do look interesting.”
“You hauled half the market up here! Oranges, pears, apples, honeydew. Oh! Watermelon, that's awesome!” Stark gushed.
“Which are which?” Mimir hesitated on the words, but Stark seemed to have gotten the meaning.
The boy started pointing them out, calling out their respective names clearly. Kratos listened quietly, taking note of the language in his own way, at his own pace. He likely would never take to it as readily as Mimir, let alone Atreus, but as long as he could understand, he’d be satisfied.
It wasn’t long before Monica set down a cloth, with wooden plates and the fruits soon adorning it. There was a wooden board and a knife set for cutting, which the guardswoman soon applied to the assortment of produce.
“Here you go, lady Frieren.”
The small elven woman smiled delightedly, plucking at green grapes of all things. They weren’t an unknown type to him, but in Greece, they were reserved almost exclusively for the nobility.
“And for you, Mr. Stark.”
“Thanks so much.”
“Mimir, would you like some?”
“Thank ye lass, but… no… middle? Go to waste.”
“You can taste, tho.”
“Aye, but no waste food- money?”
The guardswoman shrugged. “If you change your mind, there’s plenty-” She then heaved up Kratos’ plate. “And for you scary Mc-beefcake.”
Stark began choking and coughing as something he’d swallowed seemingly went down the wrong pipe, eyes watering and gasping breaths fighting to suck down a proper gulp of air.
Monica grinned mischieveously at the boy. “Nothing wrong with admiring with a little lookie-lookie.”
Mimir was looking at him with a stupid smirk on his face, and Kratos narrowed his eyes at the head.
The sooner he understood, the better.
Looking down at his plate, he decided to not eat the grapes first. If he didn’t like the other fruits, they would be a decent palate cleanser.
He needn’t have been concerned.
The flavors were new, and diverse. He tried each of the fruits, and while he still preferred his olives, this ‘watermelon’ was a close second.
“Oh, here!”
A book was shoved forward, at him no less.
He looked down at the tome, and then to Monica
She opened it, revealing a collection of images and writing.
“It’s a catalogue of monsters. You can't read it now, but eventually, it’ll be useful; tell you a bit about the monsters you might find out there and how to kill them. I mean, beyond just glaring at them til they learn to stop moving.”
Again, he didn’t understand a word, so he looked to Mimir for a translation.
“It's a book of the dangers here, brother. When we learn to read, it can help. Say ‘thank you’.”
He looked back to the woman, who stared at him with an expectant gaze; he offered a nod and a sound that he hoped conveyed his gratitude.
She took it as confirmation, smirking before settling back down to continue enjoying her own plate of fruit. He noted that she seemed partial to the ‘honeydew’, judging by how she’d filled her plate with a large serving of it.
After a moment of consideration he called;
“Mimir, tell the elf I wish to speak with her.”
“Oh?” He could tell the head was curious. But quickly, he obliged. “Fair enough-”
Stark was surprised. If Frieren herself was, she gave no indication, merely holding out her hand with that placid calm.
He reached, grasping her fingers in his as she closed her eyes to focus.
After a moment, he heard her voice, clear as crystal echoing through his own mind.
“Yes?”
Kratos frowned, knowing what he wished to say, but struggling to find the words.. “That night. I attacked you.”
“I know.”
“I will not apologize for protecting my son… But I will make amends for the error.”
“I understand. If our positions had been reversed, and I thought you were attacking Stark or Fern, I’d have done the same.”
The Greek nodded. He understood, and so did she.
No more words need be said.
He pulled his hand away, the link fizzling out like a thread dissolving under vinegar before he settled back to continue eating the offered fruit.
“Anything interesting to talk about, brother?”
“No.”
Mimir looked put out, while Stark and Monica looked curious, turning to Frieren. But the elf held her silence, and so they dared not ask.
With nothing more to be spoken, they fell into an amiable silence.
Kratos, on a whim of curiosity, decided to look over the book, examining at the very least the images present.
The sketches were well made, finely penciled onto the page.
He didn’t recognize the first few monsters depicted, beyond the obvious. The undead, of course, and the demons they’d already fought. The creatures seemed to be human in appearance, with only their horns to show them apart. There were a few others that he supposed were phantoms or spirits of some kind.
But then he turned a page, and there was something familiar staring back at him.
Unnervingly familiar.
A Minotaur.
He stared at the sketch, a hulking monstrosity with a human body and a bull’s head. It was unmistakeable.
He turned the page, and back to unfamiliarity.
Then, the next…
A Hydra.
He forced himself to keep calm. To control his reactions, calmly turning to the next page, and the next and the next-
The next one he recognized was a cyclops.
Undead were simple enough beasts. They were everywhere because humans and the dead they left behind were everywhere. Where there was death, there could be undeath.
Wherever beasts roamed, magic could shape them into monsters too.
But these… they resembled the creatures of his homeland too much. Creatures made by the curses and whims of the Gods he’d slain.
How could they be here?
He tried to look over the words; but they were gibberish, and his frustration grew; even as he kept his outward reactions subdued.
He needed to know more, and he needed to know more before it became dangerous to Atreus.
These monsters could only have come from Greece. He needed to know how they came to be here.
(X)(X)(X)
That's called foreshadowing :p
This will probably be the last chapter where the language barrier exists between Mimir, Atreus and Co, Kratos still needs a bit longer to get past the communication issues, but he'll get there very shortly with the current motivation.Anywho, hope you all liked it. Next chapter we'll finally be able to get our "mages" to exchange notes now that the language barrier has been mostly overcome. :)