once more, at peace.
Chapter 6
“Beware.”
Jandu called out the formal warning to his opponent and pulled back his bowstring. He focused on the orchid motif of his master’s shield.
Suddenly, Master Mazar dodged to the left. Jandu held his bowstring taut, following his master’s erratic movements.
Mazar whispered a sharta.
Jandu heard the dark sound of magic words, the sensation like ice down his spine. As Jandu processed the words, he quickly recalled the counter-curse needed to stop the weapon. But Jandu finished too late. Mazar released his sharta with a last hiss of breath and the ground beneath Jandu’s feet gave way. Jandu fell, sinking up to his waist as the ground parted like water under his weight. Dust exploded in a cloud and he choked.
“Damn it.” Jandu dropped his bow to drag himself free of the dry soil, coughing and batting his hand through the air to dispel the dirt. The weight of the soil pressed against him, and it took a great deal of effort to extract himself.
Mazar approached his star pupil, grinning. “Too slow, Jandu.”
“My apologies, Master.”
“Would you like some help?” Mazar asked.
“No, I’m good.” Jandu groaned as he wriggled his hips and then his legs free. His white shirt and dark blue trousers were coated in a layer of dust.
Mazar patted Jandu’s shoulder, causing another cloud of dust to explode from Jandu’s shirt. “You have to be faster.”
“I know. Let me try again.”
Mazar studied his pupil for a moment, and then nodded. “All right. Same positions.”
Mazar was thin, his muscles sinewy, and his wrinkled skin and grey beard showed his years. He kept his white hair short, and so his large ears protruded significantly, displaying the divot where the tip of his left ear had been clipped by an arrow. An impressive scar sliced across his chin.
But despite his ragged appearance, Mazar still moved with grace. His unrivaled dedication to the study of combat, especially shartas, allowed him to wield magical weapons better than anyone in Marhavad.
All of Mazar’s experience made him more than just Jandu’s hero. He was Jandu’s father figure, the man who had taught Jandu everything he knew about archery.
“Beware!” Master Mazar called from across the practice field. The sun blazed directly overhead, and Jandu wiped sweat from his eyes.
Jandu readied his stance and took aim at his master. “Beware!” he called back.
As Mazar moved, Jandu followed him with his readied arrow. And then came the words of the sharta, shivering through his consciousness like a sinister whisper. The shartas were not of this world, and as they became real words, living words, a split rifted the sky and the Yashva world poured through.
“Adarami andaraya epizanash ashubana darha mandria bedru mandria…” The words shivered down Jandu’s spine. He kept his eyes trained on his master as he uttered the counter-curse quickly, needing to speak the words before his master finished the sentence.
“Mandria bedru mandria darja ashubana epizanash adaraya adarami…” Jandu spoke the sharta backwards, speeding up towards the end, reversing the damage. He finished speaking at the same time as Mazar, and when Mazar uttered the final “Chedu!” to fire the weapon, nothing happened.
Jandu released his arrow, and shot the center of Mazar’s shield.
“Well done!” cried Mazar, approaching his student once more. Jandu unstrung his bow proudly. He spat blood on the ground. Uttering shartas always made his mouth bleed. He noticed that Mazar did not share this problem.
“How come I bleed when I use shartas and you don’t?” Jandu asked.
“Using magical weapons takes its toll uniquely on different bodies,” Mazar said. He sounded out of breath, and plopped to the dusty earth below Jandu. He stretched out, looking drawn. “For me, it merely exhausts. I feel like I have just run up a mountainside. Just count yourself lucky that you don’t piss blood like
Chapter 6
“Beware.”
Jandu called out the formal warning to his opponent and pulled back his bowstring. He focused on the orchid motif of his master’s shield.
Suddenly, Master Mazar dodged to the left. Jandu held his bowstring taut, following his master’s erratic movements.
Mazar whispered a sharta.
Jandu heard the dark sound of magic words, the sensation like ice down his spine. As Jandu processed the words, he quickly recalled the counter-curse needed to stop the weapon. But Jandu finished too late. Mazar released his sharta with a last hiss of breath and the ground beneath Jandu’s feet gave way. Jandu fell, sinking up to his waist as the ground parted like water under his weight. Dust exploded in a cloud and he choked.
“Damn it.” Jandu dropped his bow to drag himself free of the dry soil, coughing and batting his hand through the air to dispel the dirt. The weight of the soil pressed against him, and it took a great deal of effort to extract himself.
Mazar approached his star pupil, grinning. “Too slow, Jandu.”
“My apologies, Master.”
“Would you like some help?” Mazar asked.
“No, I’m good.” Jandu groaned as he wriggled his hips and then his legs free. His white shirt and dark blue trousers were coated in a layer of dust.
Mazar patted Jandu’s shoulder, causing another cloud of dust to explode from Jandu’s shirt. “You have to be faster.”
“I know. Let me try again.”
Mazar studied his pupil for a moment, and then nodded. “All right. Same positions.”
Mazar was thin, his muscles sinewy, and his wrinkled skin and grey beard showed his years. He kept his white hair short, and so his large ears protruded significantly, displaying the divot where the tip of his left ear had been clipped by an arrow. An impressive scar sliced across his chin.
But despite his ragged appearance, Mazar still moved with grace. His unrivaled dedication to the study of combat, especially shartas, allowed him to wield magical weapons better than anyone in Marhavad.
All of Mazar’s experience made him more than just Jandu’s hero. He was Jandu’s father figure, the man who had taught Jandu everything he knew about archery.
“Beware!” Master Mazar called from across the practice field. The sun blazed directly overhead, and Jandu wiped sweat from his eyes.
Jandu readied his stance and took aim at his master. “Beware!” he called back.
As Mazar moved, Jandu followed him with his readied arrow. And then came the words of the sharta, shivering through his consciousness like a sinister whisper. The shartas were not of this world, and as they became real words, living words, a split rifted the sky and the Yashva world poured through.
“Adarami andaraya epizanash ashubana darha mandria bedru mandria…” The words shivered down Jandu’s spine. He kept his eyes trained on his master as he uttered the counter-curse quickly, needing to speak the words before his master finished the sentence.
“Mandria bedru mandria darja ashubana epizanash adaraya adarami…” Jandu spoke the sharta backwards, speeding up towards the end, reversing the damage. He finished speaking at the same time as Mazar, and when Mazar uttered the final “Chedu!” to fire the weapon, nothing happened.
Jandu released his arrow, and shot the center of Mazar’s shield.
“Well done!” cried Mazar, approaching his student once more. Jandu unstrung his bow proudly. He spat blood on the ground. Uttering shartas always made his mouth bleed. He noticed that Mazar did not share this problem.
“How come I bleed when I use shartas and you don’t?” Jandu asked.
“Using magical weapons takes its toll uniquely on different bodies,” Mazar said. He sounded out of breath, and plopped to the dusty earth below Jandu. He stretched out, looking drawn. “For me, it merely exhausts. I feel like I have just run up a mountainside. Just count yourself lucky that you don’t piss blood like
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