Victor of Tucson

Book 8: Chapter 46: Responsibility

The crowd around the circle grew hushed as the brilliant, ethereal moonlight Energy gathered. Apparently, even the jaded nobility of Sojourn didn’t see a steel seeker die every day. Victor strode toward Loyle’s corpse, his head high, his back straight. Watching the Energy gather, he wondered about the bog lion. Shouldn’t he see two corpses bleeding out their Energy? He glanced in the direction he’d sent the beast tumbling but saw nothing. Had Loyle somehow sent his companion back from whence it came? Further questions were driven from his mind as the brilliant, potent stream of light surged into him.

He heard the crowd gasp, but that was the last input his corporeal senses provided before they were overwhelmed by his universe coming apart around him. Victor had the sensation of seeing time and space peeled apart, layer by layer, as a sound like the inside of a tornado rushed through his ears. He smelled and tasted things he couldn’t name, a series of sensations that tore through his mind so rapidly as to become a single stream of incomprehensible input. As one color after another—one stratum after another—peeled away before his dumbstruck inner eye, Victor witnessed things he knew he’d never remember.

He saw beings of light and darkness, creatures too big to fully grasp, and a world so vast that Earth and all its neighboring planets might disappear into one of its continents. Voices whispered to him—cryptic messages that he immediately forgot and songs that would have made him weep if he’d had any sense of his physical body. And then it was over, and he found himself on his knees in the blood-stained grass before Loyle’s broken corpse. He heard the hubbub around him; apparently, he’d put on quite a show while he absorbed the Energy. Victor ignored the voices—even Efanie’s, as she hurried to his side once again. He was too focused on the System messages:

***Congratulations! You have achieved level 68 Herald of the Mountain’s Wrath and gained 24 strength, 34 vitality, and 24 will.***

The message only added to the euphoria he was feeling from the massive Energy infusion. He’d gained two levels by killing Loyle, and that was no small boost considering how slowly he was “supposed” to level now that he was nearing tier seven. He’d begun to carry some dread about gaining levels now that he was climbing well into the upper half of the “iron ranks.” Everyone he spoke to seemed to have a reminder about how slow it would be and how tedious it was. So far, Victor hadn’t felt it, not to any significant degree, and he was hopeful he could keep proving people wrong. He continued reading:

***Congratulations! You have learned the spell: Volcanic Fury – Improved.***

***Volcanic Fury – Improved: Prerequisites: Affinity – Rage, Fury or Hatred, Affinity – Magma. You channel the fury of the fiery depths. While affected by this transformation, you are immune to fire-based attacks, your magma-based abilities double in effectiveness, you recover magma-attuned Energy at a vastly improved rate, and you benefit from the effects of Berserk: Double strength and speed, increased resilience, and powerful regenerative capabilities. Be cautious, for the fury of the volcano knows no bounds—reason and compassion will flee before its heat. Energy Cost: Minimum 1000 - scalable. Cooldown: Long.***

“Shit!” Victor grunted, swiping the messages away. His Herald of the Mountain’s Fury Class spells seemed to synergize incredibly well with his breath Core—almost like they were made to go with each other. Was Herald of the Mountain’s Fury a dragon Class? Did dragons even have Classes? Whatever the case, it only made him want to improve his breath Core all the more.

“Nah, something’s good.” Victor stood and approached Loyle’s corpse.

“Victor, Lord Volpuré waits for you; the crowd is eager to see him grant your demanded conquest price.”

“He can wait a little longer.” Victor leaned over the corpse, saw that Lifedrinker’s slash had split the torso right beside the heart, and reached into the charred, bloody flesh to grasp hold of the thick, cooling organ. With a soft grunt, accompanied by the pops of snapping arteries, he pulled it out. Efanie recoiled, shock on her face, but Victor ignored her. He set the heart on the grass and then proceeded to strip Loyle’s fingers of their rings—four in total. He picked up the heart and, with his prizes in one giant fist, dripping blood between his knuckles, strode toward Bohn Volpuré’s pretentiously oversized chair.

The crowd had gravitated toward that side of the circle, and Victor could feel the hundreds of eyes on him. As he walked, Efanie babbled, “I’ve never seen anyone absorb that much Energy at once. Even before, when I watched Loyle duel—none of those he beat had that much; they were always high-level iron-rankers or steel seekers who, obviously, hadn’t cultivated as long as him. I think he’s been a steel seeker for centuries.” She glanced back at the corpse. “Or, I mean, he was.” Victor was halfway across the circle, and when he didn’t respond, Efanie quickly asked, “How, Victor? How’d you do it?”

“You didn’t watch? His affinities were a bad match for me. He put too much weight on his status—on his aura. Weight. Aura. Hah.” Victor chuckled at his unintended pun.

“Why the heart?”

Again, Victor ignored her. He was before Volpuré. “Let them out,” he said, his voice rumbling, almost gutturally from his gut.

“Now wait just a moment—” Bohn’s rotund chamberlain began to say, but Victor’s fist was around his ruffled collar in a flash. He lifted the fellow’s enormous body onto his tiptoes, pulling his swollen, inflamed cheeks close to his face.

“Don’t interrupt,” he growled, then released the man. The chamberlain stumbled backward, and the crowd gasped as he almost fell. Two of the younger men standing nearby caught him, though, propping him up.

“There’s no call for further violence, Victor,” Bohn said, his voice smooth and calm. When Victor turned his glare on him, he cleared his throat. “Now, I understand your demands, and I’m sure we can speak about trying to come to terms, but there’s the matter of the nature of your victory—”

“The hell are you talking about? I challenged you, you picked a champion, we fought, and I won. End of story.” Victor glared around the crowd and was heartened to see quite a few of the gathered onlookers nodding along with his words.

“Well, there’s some murmuring going around, Victor, that you may have had some help. Some ill-placed but well-meaning aid from a benefactor.” When Bohn spoke, he affected an arch tone, and, despite Victor’s height, he managed to make it seem like he was looking down his nose at him as he perched there atop his throne-like chair. “Of course, I’m willing to turn a blind eye—I wouldn’t want to run afoul of a veil walker . . .” He let his words fade as he nodded to himself, looking around the crowd knowingly, as though everyone was in on the “secret.”

Victor had lost matches before. He’d dealt with cocky winners, but he’d dealt with a lot more sore losers. He’d heard the old “cheating” line of bull enough times that he didn’t feel surprised when Bohn’s words, fancy though they were, accused him of it. It didn’t make him any less angry, however. Without thinking about it, he let his rage flood his pathways and completely relaxed his will. It felt like he’d shrugged off an oil tanker’s anchor chain as his aura rippled out around him.

Victor’s aura was a hot, abysmally heavy thing—a blanket of molten burning lead. Riding that heavy, painful burden were waves of glorious, bloody battle triumphs, a thousand flavors of rage, and the deep, undeniable fear and terror of countless personal nightmares. Perhaps if the gathered people knew Victor and recognized the touch of his aura or saw him as a friend, they’d also find inspiration in those waves—some hint at the unknown or the key to a puzzle that had eluded them—but not many in the crowd around Volpuré’s throne were lucky enough to feel that thin band of brightness amid the savage, brutal, painful waves that pulsed outward from his giant, heaving body.

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Nearly everyone stumbled back; some recovered quickly and stared with steel in their eyes at Victor’s savage countenance, but most recoiled and continued to back off until they found it easier to breathe. Bohn had fallen from his throne and attempted to stand but fell again. Victor watched him crawl. He stepped forward, and a few of Bohn’s sturdier relatives closed in, hands summoning weapons. Victor held up one hand, looking around as he slowly shook his head, discouraging interference. “I’ll give you one chance to apologize for calling my honor into question, Bohn. One chance, otherwise, I’ll accept your words for what they are—a fresh challenge.”

“N-no!” Bohn rolled to his side, his hands pumping futilely as he attempted to push something invisible and intangible away from him. “I was—” he gasped, his eyes widening in horror as some imagined nightmare flitted through his field of view. “I was wrong to listen to any such rumors. Of course—” He screamed and wrapped his arms over his face, then tried again, “Of course, I don’t believe them. Your honor is intact, good sir!”

Victor nodded, pushed the rage back into his Core, and gathered up his aura. Bohn and several other nearby people gasped in relief. He scrambled to his knees, and then some of his liveried servants ran forward to take his arms, pulling him to his feet. Once he’d recovered, Volpuré glared around, and the servants backed away. Victor knew it must have been a very long time since he’d been embarrassed like that. Centuries, perhaps. He wasn’t a weak man—at tier five, he was stronger than most people on Fanwath. Still, he’d grown used to having a steel seeker champion; he wasn’t a big fish on Sojourn.

“I’ll, um, I’ll head back to the keep and close the dungeon instance; it will bring your friends and my daughter out. They’ll be sorry for the loss of a valuable learning—”

“Cut the bullshit, Bohn.” More gasps and murmurs followed Victor’s dismissive interruption, but he didn’t care. He was done playing nice; hadn’t Bohn and all his boot lickers thought they would watch Victor die that night? “Just go do what you promised. I’ll have what’s owed.”

Bohn frowned, but he turned and snapped his fingers. A moment later, a pair of liveried servants ran forward, dragging a floating pavilion by gilded black cords. Bohn climbed aboard the magical conveyance, looked down at Victor and the crowd of relatives and neighbors, and said, “I’m a man of my word. Seek your comrades outside my manor’s gates before the next hour chimes from the bell.” With that, he banked the weird flying platform and streaked toward the tall obelisk-like keep in the distance.

Victor watched him go and, glancing away from the diminishing figure, admired the view. Beyond Bohn’s manor, he could see a dozen others spread out around the nearby hills, their windows lit up against the nighttime gloom. They glowed with amber and rainbow hues as the interior illumination shone through stained glass here and there. Victor was forced to pause and step outside his righteous, rage-filled moment, admiring the beauty.

“Ahem,” a man said, clearing his throat from off to Victor’s left. “I say, well fought, Victor! Three cheers!” To Victor’s amusement, the people around him complied.

“Victor! Victor! Victor!”

“Heh. Thanks!” He turned in a slow circle, meeting the gazes of people who looked genuinely star-struck. A few glowered, sure, but almost everyone was smiling, and quite a few were trying to jostle their way closer to him.

“How?” one man cried out. “Tell us how, Victor! How does an iron ranker have such an aura? How did you stand against Loyle’s spells?”

Victor ignored the question, but a woman quite close, right behind Efanie, cried out, “Why the heart, Victor?”

Victor grinned, exposing his bright Quinametzin teeth. “I eat the hearts of worthy foes!” His declaration was met with gasps, retches, laughter, and even cheers.” Victor joined those laughing, holding his bloody fist high. “Where’s the lion?”

“It got up!” someone shouted.

Another person confirmed: “Aye! When Loyle died! It got up and ran off into the tall grass!”

“Huh.” Victor rubbed his chin. “Good for that tough bastard, I guess.” For some reason, his words made people cheer again, and Victor continued to chuckle, turning to the trailhead leading down the hill. “Time to go get my friends and get home.” He looked around at the expectant faces and tried to tune out the buzz of conversation, questions, and adulation. He pushed his way through the crowd to the path, saying things like, “Sorry” or “I’m tired, folks” by way of excuse as he fled the festive scene. Efanie hurried behind him.

As he walked, Victor realized he was still clutching Loyle’s heart and sent it into his storage ring. He contemplated the rings in his palm, then, sending a trickle of Energy into his armor so it converted to his comfortable clothing, he tucked them into a pocket.

Efanie, still hurrying behind him, asked, “Would you like me to summon a coach?”

“I could ride my—” Victor cut himself off as he realized a man in a fine gray suit, wearing a pointy, wide-brimmed hat and accompanied by a girl who couldn’t be more than thirteen, followed close behind Efanie. They were a third of the way down the hill, and, in his haste, Victor had left the rest of the crowd behind. Only Efanie and the breathless duo were with him on that particular stretch of trail. He stepped to the side, hoping they’d hurry past, but they stopped. Victor groaned inwardly as the man cleared his throat, and the girl looked at him with fierce, angry eyes and tear-streaked cheeks.

“Ahem. Sir Victor, I am Torka Vinchan, personal historian of the late Fak Loyle. This, here, is his daughter Cora Loyle—his only surviving family member. As she is of tender years and you vanquished her guardian and claimed his riches, I hereby, in full view of a member of Sojourn Society in good standing,” he nodded to Efanie, “entrust her to your care. I bid you farewell, sir.” He paused briefly to look at the young girl, gave her a pained smile and a nod, then turned away and started down the slope. Victor reached out to grab his shoulder.

“Hold on a minute! What the hell are you talking about?”

“The child, sir—she’s without a guardian, and you’ve claimed her family wealth. It’s only honorable that you take responsibility for her.”

Victor kept a firm grip on the man’s shoulder but turned to Efanie. “What the hell?”

“Um, yes, well, I believe he makes a valid point. If he’s not contracted to care for the girl—”

“I am not,” Torka said, his grim smile almost smug.

Victor’s scowl deepened. “Shouldn’t Loyle’s employer take responsibility?”

“Volpuré?” Efanie’s frown deepened, and she leaned close, her voice a near whisper. “I don’t believe he’d be a kind guardian, Victor.”

Victor looked from the historian to the distant manor and then down at the girl. Her eyes were dark in the dim light, and she glared at him briefly, with bloodshot, angry eyes, before looking down as she furrowed her thick eyebrows—Victor could see she’d inherited her father’s unruly, wild-looking hair. Inwardly, he groaned, but he kept it contained. This girl had just lost what was, apparently, her only family—her father—and he’d been the one to kill him. Unable to stop himself, he voiced what was on his mind: “You can’t possibly want to come with me.”

The girl refused to look him in the face, but Victor saw tears leak from her eyes as she mumbled, “I’m happy to look after myself, sir.” Victor reached out to grasp her chin, forcing her eyes to lock onto his. He saw anger behind her sadness, something kindred that spoke to the depths of his rage-soaked heart.

“All right.” He let go of her, and she immediately averted her gaze. “I won’t let you fall on Volpuré’s mercy. I’ll find someone to look after you.”

“Sir, I must insist you unhand me. I’ve done my duty.” Victor glanced at the historian and released his shoulder with poorly masked contempt. Torka Vinchan didn’t immediately scamper off, however. He paused and held a finger to his chin. “I wouldn’t mind a quote or three for the final chapter.”

“Final chapter?”

“Yes sir—of Fak Loyle’s biography.”

Victor glared at him. A small part of him wanted to be polite and think up a quote—something interesting or even flattering about the dead duelist, mainly because his daughter was present. It was a very tiny voice, though—easily ignored. Instead, he growled, “Get out of here.” Some hint of his potential for violence must have registered with the historian because he turned and practically ran down the trail. “All right. Enough of this shit. I need to get things moving.” Victor summoned Guapo using glory-attuned Energy, and the golden mustang burst from a cloud of sparkling, brilliant light, whinnying and pawing at the air with his front hooves.

Victor hoisted himself onto the great stallion’s back, then held a hand down to the young girl. She wore a ruffled gray blouse over layered skirts, and she looked at Guapo with horror in her eyes. “Listen, I doubt you want anything to do with me. I’m sorry about that. Come along, though, and, like I said, I’ll make sure we find a proper home or caretaker for you.”

Efanie nodded. “Wisely said, Victor.” She nudged Cora’s narrow shoulders, pushing her closer to Victor’s hand. “Go on, child. He’s honorable.” Cora looked up at Victor, and he could see her gather her courage before she tentatively stretched her tiny hand toward his. Victor leaned down further, snatched her wrist, and hoisted her up. She felt weightless, and he was struck by her fragility, her precarious position in a violent universe. Deyni came to mind, and he was suddenly glad she was back on Fanwath among people who cared about her. Pushing away the sudden wave of melancholy homesickness, he set the girl sideways onto Guapo’s back in front of him.

“Nice meeting you, Efanie. If my friends are out of the dungeon before you get back to the manor, I’ll probably be gone.” Efanie looked from Victor to Cora. She didn’t say anything at first, but Victor could see she had a lot on her mind. “Listen, I’m not a man like—well, like Volpuré. I’ll make sure she’s okay. Unless you—”

“No! No, Victor, I couldn’t. My duties . . . My finances . . .” Her objections felt half-hearted to Victor, so he stretched his hand back down.

“Come on. I’ll give you a ride, and you ought to think about working for someone new. If not me, I bet I can get Dar to take you on. Cora could use someone familiar around.” To his amazement, Efanie nodded and snatched his hand, easily hoisting herself up behind him.

“It’s good your mount is so powerful!”

“Fast, too! Hold on!” Victor put a steadying arm around the girl, and she cringed. Naturally, that made him feel like an asshole, but he couldn’t help the circumstances. Was it his fault her father worked as a duelist for hire? Was Victor to blame for fighting for his life? Of course, he might see things differently from her shoes, but that was a problem for another day. At the moment, he wanted to be done with this whole ordeal, so he urged Guapo to pick up the pace, and soon Efanie was whooping and laughing as the wind whistled past and Guapo’s powerful hooves ate up the distance between the hill and the manor.

When the stallion exploded out of the orchard, and the manor’s wall and gates came into view, Victor said, “Woah!” and Guapo rapidly slowed to a more sedate trot. He could see people under the glow lanterns above the gate, and as they approached, he recognized the beautiful, light-filled dragonfly wings belonging to Lam and Edeya. They turned toward him, and that’s when he saw the figure on the ground between them—a human-shaped figure on a stretcher, wrapped in blood-stained rags.

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